Cibrarp  of  Che  theological  ^eroinarp 

PRINCETON  •  NEW  JERSEY 

<S$ce£$I> 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
ROBERT  ELLIOTT  SPEER 


ML4-22 

.Dili, 


Pf  »  / *  y 


J  ?^3_ 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/mymusicallifeOOdamr 


From,  a  photograph  by  Pirie  MacDonald 


WALTER  DAMROSCH  IN  1920 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


BY 

WALTER  DAMROSCH 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 

1923 


Copyright,  1923,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


Copyright,  1922,  1923,  by  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  CO. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  October,  1923 


To  dearest  M 


This  book  I  dedicate  to  you  because  you  have 
walked  hand  in  hand  with  me  through  most  of 
the  experiences  related  therein . 

Because  of  you  my  disappointments  have  been 
cut  in  half  and  my  happinesses  made  double , 
and  if  I  have  made  known  to  you  the  wondrous 
muse  of  music ,  you  in  turn  have  brought  into 
our  home  and  given  a  permanent  abiding  place 
therein ,  the  three  gentle  sisters — Faithy  Hope 
and  Charity. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Childhood — 1866-1875 .  1 

II.  Bayreuth  in  1876 — My  Doll’s  Theatre  ...  13 

III.  Founding  of  the  Symphony  and  Oratorio  Socie¬ 

ties  of  New  York . 23 

IV.  August  Wilhelmj — Teresa  Carreno  ....  28 

V.  Liszt  and  Wagner . 36 

VI.  The  Founding  of  German  Opera  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan — Death  of  My  Father . 51 

VII.  Lilli  Lehmann . 63 

VIII.  Hans  von  Bulow . 74 

IX.  Andrew  Carnegie  and  the  Blaine  Family  .  .  90 

X.  The  Damrosch  Opera  Company,  1895-1899  .  .  104 

XI.  Artists . 134 

XII.  Romance . 164 

XIII.  The  Oratorio  Society  of  New  York  ....  169 

XIV.  The  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra  .  .  .  .  186 

XV.  The  Great  War . 221 

XVI.  The  European  Tour . 272 

•  • 

Vll 


VIII 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.  Women  in  Musical  Affairs . 323 

XVIII.  Boston . 333 

XIX.  Margaret  Anglin  and  the  Greek  Plays  .  .  .  344 

XX.  Dead  Composers . 351 

XXI.  Postlude . 367 


Index 


369 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Walter  Damrosch  in  1920 . Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Mrs.  Leopold  Damrosch,  her  son  Frank  standing  by  her  side 

and  Walter  on  her  lap .  4 

Afternoon  coffee  in  the  Damrosch  Home,  Breslau,  1867  .  .  10 

Frank  and  Walter  Damrosch,  Breslau,  June  1871  .  *  .  .  16 

Doctor  Leopold  Damrosch  and  his  son  Walter  at  eighteen  years 

of  age.  f . 32 

Portrait  of  Franz  Liszt . 48 

Doctor  Leopold  Damrosch . 58 

Lilli  Lehmann  as  Isolde . 68 

At  noontime  we  halted  at  some  picturesque  nook  under  the 

shade  of  the  trees . 96 

Mathilde  Marchesi . 124 

Nellie  Melba . 124 

Marianne  Brandt .  . 132 

Lillian  Nordica . 132 

Camille  Saint-Saens . 144 

Peter  Tschaikowsky . 144 

Camille  Saint-Saens  and  Walter  Damrosch . 156 

Lieutenant  Walker  Blaine  Beale . 232 

Fritz  Kreisler,  Harold  Bauer,  Pablo  Casals,  and  Walter  Dam¬ 
rosch  . 356 

Walter  Damrosch  giving  a  Wagner  lecture  recital  at  the  piano.  364 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


i 

CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 

I  am  an  American  musician  and  have  lived  in  this 
country  since  my  ninth  year.  I  was  born  in  Breslau, 
Silesia,  on  January  30,  1862,  and  my  first  memories  are 
connected  with  war,  the  Austro-Prussian  War  of  1866. 
I  was  four  years  old  and  remember  being  with  my  mother 
in  a  room  in  our  apartment  in  Breslau,  which  was  filled 
with  flowers  and  growing  plants  (mother  always  had  a 
marvellous  gift  for  maintaining  and  nursing  plants)  and 
various  friends  coming  in  to  condole  with  her  over  the 
death  of  my  baby  brother,  Hans,  who  had  died  of  cholera, 
which  was  then  raging  in  Breslau.  The  first  child  of  my 
parents,  born  in  1859,  had  been  christened  Richard,  after 
Richard  Wagner,  who  had  officiated  as  godfather  at  the 
ceremony.  This  child  lived  but  a  short  time,  and  Wagner 
had  vowed  that  he  would  never  again  stand  as  godfather 
for  the  children  of  any  of  his  friends,  as  the  ill  luck  which 
had  pursued  him  all  his  life  was  thus  carried  even  into 
their  families. 

In  order  to  safeguard  the  rest  of  her  children  from  the 
danger  of  the  dread  disease  to  which  little  Hans  had  suc¬ 
cumbed,  my  mother  took  my  older  brother,  Frank,  my¬ 
self,  and  a  baby  sister  into  the  country  near  the  Bohemian 
frontier,  where  the  war  was  being  fought.  I  can  re¬ 
member  my  brother  and  myself  standing  at  a  country 
road,  each  armed  with  a  huge  bouquet  of  flowers  we  had 


2 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


gathered,  and  watching  for  General  Steinmetz  and  his 
army  to  pass  on  their  way  to  the  front.  As  they  marched 
by,  my  brother  bravely  ran  to  one  of  the  officers  and  gave 
him  his  flowers,  but  my  courage  gave  out  and  I  threw 
my  bouquet  so  that  it  fell  on  the  ground,  from  which  one 
of  the  soldiers  smilingly  picked  it  up  and  stuck  it  on  his 
bayonet.  That  same  afternoon  Frank  and  I  lay  on  the 
ground  with  our  ears  closely  pressed  to  it  and  we  could 
plainly  hear  the  booming  of  the  cannon. 

When  peace  was  declared,  King  William  of  Prussia 
(afterward  Emperor  William  the  First)  together  with 
Crown  Prince  Frederick,  Bismarck,  Moltke,  and  a  bril¬ 
liant  retinue  of  officers,  made  their  triumphant  entry  into 
Breslau  on  horseback.  My  brother  and  I  watched  this 
gorgeous  sight  with  delighted  eyes  from  the  balcony  of 
our  apartment.  My  mother  threw  a  wreath,  which 
fell  on  the  neck  of  the  horse  carrying  King  William  and 
he,  looking  up,  saluted  her. 

Musical  conditions  when  my  father  first  came  to 
Breslau  in  1858,  immediately  after  his  marriage,  were 
miserable  enough,  and  it  was  not  until  he  founded,  to¬ 
gether  with  some  musical  enthusiasts,  the  “  Breslau 
Orchester  Verein”  that  a  regular  symphonic  orchestra 
was  established  with  a  series  of  subscription  concerts. 
All  the  great  artists  of  the  day  came  to  Breslau  to  take 
part  in  these  concerts,  and  generally  they  stayed  at  our 
house,  although  our  quarters  were  very  simple — Liszt, 
Wagner,  von  Bulow,  Clara  Schumann,  Taussig,  Joachim, 
Auer,  Haenselt,  Rubinstein.  Some  of  them  I  can  re¬ 
member  vaguely,  but  of  course  many  stories  and  anec¬ 
dotes  were  current  in  the  family  regarding  their  visits. 

When  Taussig,  Liszt’s  greatest  piano  pupil,  spent  a 


CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 


3 


night  in  our  house,  the  bed  in  the  guest-room  broke  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  he  calmly  arranged  his 
mattress  on  the  floor  and  continued  his  slumbers.  But 
his  visit  was  connected  in  my  brother's  and  my  mind 
particularly  with  a  certain  apple  pudding  which  he 
adored  and  which  my  mother  always  baked  especially 
for  him,  so  that  it  became  known  in  our  family  as  the 
“Taussigsche  ApfeI-Speise.,,  It  was  a  luscious  mixture 
of  apples,  raisins,  and  almonds  incased  in  a  delicate, 
light  pie-crust. 

My  father  and  Taussig  would  sometimes  engage  in  the 
most  violent  discussions  on  musical  or  philosophical 
topics,  and  the  latter  would  often  become  so  enraged  that 
he  would  rush  out  of  the  house,  vowing  he  would  never 
return.  Then  he  would  run  around  the  block  and  come 
back  in  five  minutes,  smiling  and  saying,  “Come,  Dam- 
rosch,  let  us  play  a  Beethoven  Sonata  together,”  and  all 
would  be  well. 

When  Joachim  arrived  he  found  a  large 

“WlLLKOMMEN  HeRR  JOACHIM” 

in  green  leaves  over  the  door  of  our  music-room,  carefully 
arranged  by  my  brother  and  myself.  We  adored  him 
because  he  loved  children  and  would  cut  all  manner  of 
wonderful  figures  out  of  paper  for  us. 

Liszt  came  on  especially  to  officiate  as  godfather  at 
the  christening  of  my  older  brother,  Frank  (Franz), 
who  was  named  after  him,  but,  as  I  was  not  born  at  the 
time,  my  memory  of  it  is  not  very  vivid. 

Once  when  Hans  von  Biilow  arrived  for  dinner,  my 
mother  herself  had  roasted  a  hare  in  his  honor.  To  her 
despair  she  discovered  at  table  that  she  had  seasoned  it 
with  sugar  instead  of  salt,  but  Biilow,  perfect  gentleman 


4 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


that  he  was,  asked  for  a  second  helping,  insisting  that 
sugar  always  improved  roast  hare  immensely. 

My  favorite  reading  at  the  age  of  eight  was  a  wonderful 
edition  of  Homer’s  “  Iliad”  and  “Odyssey”  in  a  fine  high- 
sounding  metrical  translation  by  Voss  and  with  many 
beautiful  illustrations  by  Friedrich  Preller,  of  Weimar, 
at  whose  house  my  mother  became  engaged  to  my  father. 
As  a  result  of  reading  these  very  exciting  Greek  chroni¬ 
cles  I  constantly  enacted  scenes  therefrom.  My  mother’s 
clever  fingers  fashioned  for  me  from  silver  paper  and 
pasteboard  helmet,  armor,  and  shield;  and  as  Achilles  I 
would  drag  Hector  (my  little  sister,  Marie)  on  my  chariot 
(two  overturned  chairs)  around  the  walls  of  Troy  (the 
dining-room  table). 

In  the  winter  there  was  always  skating  on  the  Oder, 
and  I  remember,  aged  seven  or  eight,  being  given  money 
to  buy  a  ticket  of  admission  and  to  skate  to  my  heart’s 
content.  Part  of  this  ticket  had  to  be  retained  and  given 
up  on  leaving  the  ice.  Of  course  I  lost  this  ticket  and 
being  refused  egress  by  the  uniformed  attendant,  I  dis¬ 
mally  skated  about  for  hours,  becoming  more  and  more 
frightened  as  the  sun  went  down  and  the  river  became 
more  and  more  deserted.  I  thought  I  would  have  to 
remain  there  for  the  rest  of  my  young  life,  and  it  was  a 
very  tear-stained  and  miserable  little  boy  who  ran 
toward  the  dear  Tante  Marie  who,  having  become  anx¬ 
ious  at  my  absence,  had  come  to  see  where  I  was  and 
who  released  me,  by  payment  for  another  ticket,  from  my 
dreadful  imprisonment. 

Tante  Marie  is  a  younger  sister  of  my  mother’s  who 
came  to  live  with  us  at  the  age  of  sixteen  and  who  became 
my  mother’s  closest  helper  during  many  years  of  storm 
and  stress,  whose  gentle  and  patient  self-sacrifice  have 


MRS.  LEOPOLD  DAMROSCH,  HER  SON  FRANK  STANDING  BY  HER  SIDE  AND 

WALTER  ON  HER  LAP 

From  a  photograph  taken  in  1862 


' 


CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 


5 


never  failed  her  and  who,  thank  God,  is  still  living  and 
as  wonderful  as  ever,  the  last  link  with  that  dim  past  of 
long  ago. 

I  think  I  was  somewhat  afraid  of  my  father  in  those 
days.  He  was  rather  stern  and  taciturn.  Life  was  hard 
and  the  struggle  for  existence  difficult.  He  was  some¬ 
what  severe  about  my  studies  and  as  those  were  the  days 
when  whipping  children  for  naughtiness  was  considered 
an  essential  of  their  education,  I  received  my  share  of 
such  punishment.  In  fact,  sometimes  I  was  whipped  in 
school  and  then  had  to  take  my  school  report  home  to 
my  father  and  he  would  perhaps  repeat  the  dose.  But 
with  all  that  I  was  very  proud  of  him  and  used  to  enjoy 
trotting  by  his  side  along  the  promenade  on  the  banks  of 
the  Oder,  because  so  many  people  would  take  off  their 
hats  to  him  deferentially  as  he  passed. 

He  also  gave  us  children  a  good  deal  of  his  time  in 
reading  to  us  books  that  would  stimulate  our  imaginations 
and  cultivate  our  instincts  for  the  beautiful — Grimm’s 
and  Andersen’s  “Fairy  Tales,”  the  “Arabian  Nights,” 
and  some  of  the  parables  from  the  New  Testament. 

But  whenever  I  was  sent  supperless  to  bed  or  confined 
to  my  room  for  some  misdeed,  it  was  always  mother  who 
would  comfort  me  and  perhaps  bring  me  a  plate  of  soup 
or  dessert  secretly  and  talk  to  me  gently  until  my  ob¬ 
stinacy  would  melt  and  I  would  be  ready  to  knock  at 
my  father’s  study  and  ask  his  forgiveness.  Once  I  did 
not  dare,  but  instead  drew  a  picture  of  myself  standing 
penitently  at  his  door  and  underneath  the  words:  “Seven 
times  seventy  times  shalt  thou  forgive.”  This  I  shoved 
under  the  door  into  his  study  and  it  produced  the  desired 
effect,  as  it  brought  my  father  out  and  in  a  very  forgiving 
mood. 


6 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


One  of  my  sins  was  that  I  simply  could  not  bear  to 
eat  spinach,  and  as  in  those  days  it  was  considered  the 
absolute  duty  of  a  child  to  eat  anything  that  was  put  be¬ 
fore  him  because  “God  had  grown  the  spinach  and  other 
vegetables  in  order  to  feed  hungry  children,”  and  “there 
were  thousands  of  poor  little  children  who  would  be  only 
too  glad  to  eat  spinach,”  I  was  forced  to  eat  it  although  it 
often  choked  me  and  made  me  ill.  Even  to  this  day  I 
cannot  bear  spinach,  and  with  all  the  reverence  and  deep 
affection  that  I  have  for  my  father,  I  do  not  think  he  was 
right  in  this  particular  case  as  regards  his  pedagogic 
theories. 


The  following  excerpts  from  letters  of  von  Billow  throw 
an  interesting  light  on  the  conditions  under  which  my 
father  worked  in  Breslau  at  that  time. 

To  the  Princess  Carolyn  Sayn-Wittgenstein  (Liszt9 s  closest 

friend ) 

Berlin,  Feb.  io,  1859. 

.  .  .  Anticipating  Liszt's  promise  I  have  sent  the  score  of  his 
“  Ideale  ”  to  Damrosch  who  will  have  the  parts  copied  and  get  the  work 
to  his  public  already  during  this  month.  If  we  could  only  have 
a  half  dozen  soldiers  like  Damrosch  at  our  disposal !  .  .  . 

To  Felix  Draescke  (composer  and  disciple  of  Liszt  for  whom 
Billow  had  tried  to  obtain  a  position) 

Berlin,  Oct.  16,  i860. 

...  I  am  assured  of  my  complete  lack  of  power  to  help.  To 
achieve  the  like  for  Damrosch  has  also  failed.  D.,  with  wife  and  child, 
and  another  one  in  the  nearest  future,  is  quasi  near  to  starvation. 
It  has  taken  me  much  time  to  find  out  finally  that  I  cannot  help.  .  .  . 


CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 


7 


To  Hans  von  Bronsart  ( mutual  friend  and  musician. 

Intendant  of  the  Royal  Opera  in  Hanover.  In  relation 
to  a  joint  concert  with  Billow) 

...  A  propos !  Please  fix  Damrosch’s  honorarium  as  high  as 
possible.  He  needs  it.  In  order  to  recompense  him  the  better,  I 
do  not  desire  any  violoncellist.  I  had  arranged  with  him  in  your 
name  for  eight  Louis  d’or.  You  had  authorized  me  to  give  as  high 
as  ten  for  Laub.  Damrosch  is  Laub  +  •  •  • 

Laub  was  a  distinguished  violinist  living  in  Berlin. 

To  Richard  Pohl  ( distinguished  writer  on  music  and  propa¬ 
gandist  for  Wagner,  Berlioz,  and  Liszt) 

Berlin,  Sept.,  1861. 

.  .  .  Damrosch  had  been  engaged  by  Taussig  for  joint  soirees  in 
Vienna  and  a  long  Russian  concert  tour,  but  the  matter  suddenly 
came  to  naught,  and  although  one  cannot  accuse  T.  of  irresponsibility, 
Damrosch  is  in  such  miserable  fashion  again  bound  to  that  sterile 
Breslau.  Poor,  greatly  talented,  honest  chap — must  fight  his 
way  through  greatest  misere.  Is  there  still  no  chance  for  him  in 
Weimar?  .  .  . 

To  Joachim  Raff  ( German  composer  of  distinction) 

Berlin,  Nov.  io,  i860. 

.  .  .  Your  piano  and  violin  sonata  I  am  to  play  in  Leipsig.  Laub 
and  Singer  are  afraid  of  the  Gewandhaus  and  are  not  keen  about  it, 
so  I  don't  yet  know  whom  I  am  to  serve  as  accompanist.  Damrosch, 
with  whom  I  played  the  composition  six  weeks  ago,  conceives  it  ac¬ 
cording  to  my  views  quite  exceptionally.  The  adagio,  for  instance, 
he  plays  far  more  beautifully  than  Laub.  Very  likely  we  shall  turn 
to  him.  .  .  . 

In  1870  the  papers  were  filled  with  accounts  of  “the 
outrageous  insult  of  King  William  by  the  French  ambas¬ 
sador,  Benedetti,”  and  the  hostile  attitude  of  Emperor 


8 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Napoleon  the  Third.  War  was  declared  and  of  course 
we  boys  immediately  began  to  indulge  in  imitations  of 
the  military  drill  of  the  soldiers  of  our  city.  The  most 
exciting  and  welcome  news  to  me  at  the  time  was  that  my 
piano  teacher  had  been  drafted  and  I  had  high  hopes  of 
not  having  to  continue  to  undergo  the  dreary  necessity 
of  daily  finger  exercises,  but  alas,  my  hopes  were  rudely 
dashed  to  the  ground  when  a  bald-headed  substitute 
appeared  to  continue  the  lessons. 

Soon  the  trains  were  coming  in,  bringing  the  wounded, 
and  the  French  prisoners,  among  whom  the  dark-skinned 
Zouaves  and  Turks  especially  excited  our  interest.  We 
looked  with  envy  at  the  older  boys  of  our  school  who, 
having  studied  French,  used  to  go  up  to  the  French  officers 
and  ask  them  whether  there  was  anything  they  could  do 
for  them. 

The  war  ended  and  my  young  piano  teacher  returned, 
resplendent  in  his  uniform  with  shining  brass  buttons, 
in  which  he  paid  his  first  ceremonial  visit  to  my  father 
and  mother.  My  mother,  wishing  to  put  him  at  his  ease, 
asked  him  to  tell  something  of  his  experiences  in  the  war, 
but  he  was  not  very  articulate.  Yes,  he  had  been  at  the 
beleaguering  and  capitulation  of  Metz. 

4 ‘How  wonderful/’  said  my  mother,  “and  what  hap¬ 
pened  to  you  there?” 

“Oh,  well,  they — they — shot  at  us.” 

And  that  was  all  we  could  get  out  of  him. 

In  the  meanwhile  my  father  had  become  more  and 
more  discontented  with  musical,  social,  and  political 
conditions  in  Breslau.  He  was  really  a  Republican  at 
heart  and  the  Prussian  bureaucracy,  which  had  become 
more  and  more  accentuated  by  the  war,  irked  and  angered 
him.  With  greatest  difficulty  he  could  make  a  bare 


CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 


9 


living  for  his  family,  and  he  found  the  population  of 
Breslau,  except  a  small  band  of  devoted  followers,  steeped 
in  materialism  and  not  particularly  sympathetic  toward 
art,  especially  the  modern  German  composers. 

In  1871  my  father  received  an  invitation  through  Ed¬ 
ward  Schubert,  the  music  publisher  of  New  York,  to 
come  to  America  as  conductor  of  the  Arion  Society,  and 
while  this  opening  was  small  enough,  it  seemed  to  offer 
him  an  opportunity  through  which  better  and  bigger 
things  might  develop  and  under  conditions  more  free 
than  were  possible  in  Germany  at  that  time.  He  there¬ 
fore  determined,  at  forty  years  of  age,  to  take  the  plunge 
and  to  precede  his  family  to  America  in  order  to  find  out 
whether  a  living  and  a  new  career  might  be  made  possible 
in  the  New  World.  The  Arion  Society  occupied  an  honor¬ 
able  position  in  the  social  and  musical  life  of  the  Germans 
living  in  New  York. 

I  can  remember  his  farewell  concert,  in  Breslau,  at 
which  he  performed  Beethoven’s  Ninth  Symphony. 
There  were  laurel  wreaths,  and  chorus  ladies  in  white, 
and  there  was  a  general  atmosphere  of  enthusiasm  and 
of  many  tears,  but  my  memories  are  connected  particu¬ 
larly  with  my  astonishment  at  seeing  my  teacher  of  arith¬ 
metic  whom  I  hated,  suddenly  stand  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  parquet  during  the  intermission  and  ogle  the  ladies 
with  a  pair  of  opera-glasses.  It  had  never  entered  my 
childish  mind  until  then  that  a  horrible  school-teacher 
could  be  a  man  like  other  men  in  private  life. 

A  very  tragic  happening  was  that  one  of  my  suspenders 
burst  during  the  Ninth  Symphony,  and  for  the  rest  of 
the  performance  I  was  in  mortal  fear  that  my  trousers 
might  not  “stay  put.” 

After  my  father’s  departure  we  children,  of  course, 


10 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


played  nothing  but  sailing  off  on  a  ship,  again  principally 
by  aid  of  the  parlor  and  dining-room  furniture.  We 
read  “ Robinson  Crusoe”  and  enacted  its  chapters  with 
great  satisfaction  to  ourselves.  It  was  all  good  fun  to 
us,  but  the  anguish  of  parting  from  the  country  in  which 
they  had  grown  up  and  lived  for  so  many  years,  and  the 
dread  of  the  unknown  in  a  strange  land,  must  have  been 
terrible  for  my  father  and  mother. 

Finally  came  an  enthusiastic  letter  from  my  father 
bidding  us  to  follow  him  to  New  York;  we  accordingly  set 
sail,  August,  1871,  in  a  little  ship  of  the  North  German 
Lloyd,  the  Hermann  from  Bremen,  my  mother,  Tante 
Marie,  Frank,  myself,  and  two  younger  sisters.  I  was 
desperately  seasick  for  several  days  until  one  Sunday 
morning,  when,  as  I  was  lying  on  a  bench  on  deck,  the 
young  captain  rudely  kicked  me  off,  saying,  “Look  here, 
youngster,  you  have  been  ill  long  enough,  now  brace  up,” 
which  I  did  and  enjoyed  the  rest  of  the  trip  immensely. 
The  captain  was  in  a  very  romantic  mood  because  he  was 
to  marry  a  young  American  girl  on  his  arrival  in  New 
York.  In  the  evenings  my  mother  would  sing  Schubert 
and  Schumann  on  deck  and  the  captain  several  times  gave 
us  firework  displays,  rockets,  etc.,  in  honor  of  his  ap¬ 
proaching  nuptials. 

When  we  arrived  in  New  York  we  found  my  father 
anxiously  pacing  the  wharf  where  he  had  been  waiting, 
since  early  morning,  for  eight  hours,  to  take  us  in  a  car¬ 
riage  from  Hoboken  to  a  house  in  East  35th  Street  which 
he  had  rented  and  furnished  completely  from  top  to  bot¬ 
tom  as  a  surprise  for  my  mother.  The  hot  and  cold  water 
on  every  floor,  the  gas  and  the  carpets  were  a  revelation 
to  us,  as  these  modern  conveniences  were  hardly  known 
in  Breslau  at  that  time. 


AFTERNOON  COFFEE  IN  THE  DAMROSCH  HOME,  BRESLAU,  1867 
Frank,  Tante  Marie,  Mother,  Marie,  Father,  Walter 


CHILDHOOD— 1866-1875 


1 1 


My  brother  and  I  were  immediately  put  into  the  pri¬ 
mary  department  of  Public  School  No.  40  in  East  23d 
Street,  and  as  we  did  not  know  a  word  of  English  we  were 
entered  in  the  lowest  class,  although  I  had  already  been 
in  the  Sexta  of  the  Gymnasium  (High  School)  and  my 
brother  in  the  Quarta,  and  I  had  studied  Latin  and  he 
both  Latin  and  Greek.  But  we  dutifully  spelled  out  cat, 
dog,  etc.,  until  after  a  few  weeks  of  this  we  were  promoted, 
and  so  these  promotions  went  on  with  lightning  rapidity 
until  we  had  acquired  English  and  could  enter  a  class  more 
appropriate  to  our  years,  nine  and  twelve  respectively. 

I  continued  my  studies  of  piano  under  an  old  teacher, 
Jean  Vogt  by  name,  and  after  his  return  to  Germany  I 
studied  with  Pruckner,  von  Inten,  Max  Pinner,  and 
Boeckelman.  The  last,  feeling  that  I  could  not  raise  my 
fingers  high  enough  from  the  knuckles,  gave  me  a  machine 
of  steel  springs  which,  through  rings  attached  to  the 
fingers,  were  to  lift  them  higher  than  nature  would  per¬ 
mit.  Unfortunately  this  contrivance  brought  about  a 
weakness  in  the  third  finger  of  my  right  hand  from  which 
I  have  never  quite  recovered  and  which  unfortunately,  or 
fortunately,  has  prevented  me  from  becoming  a  profes¬ 
sional  piano  virtuoso.  But  I  had  acquired  a  good  tech¬ 
nic  and  a  singing  quality  of  tone  which  served  me  well 
years  after  when  I  began  to  give  recitals  at  the  piano  on 
the  Wagnerian  music  dramas,  at  which  I  played  the 
orchestral  part  on  the  piano  while  I  recited  the  text  and 
explained  the  various  musical  motifs  and  their  relation 
to  the  text. 

My  first  appearance  in  an  orchestra  was,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  a  rank  failure.  I  was  only  a  boy  of  fourteen  years 
and  my  father  had  prepared  a  charming  operetta  of 
Schubert’s,  “Der  Hausliche  Krieg,”  for  a  “Summer 


12 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Night’s  Festival”  of  the  Arion  Society.  In  this  occurs 
a  delightful  March  of  the  Crusaders  with  one  loud  clash 
of  the  cymbals  at  the  climax.  It  did  not  seem  worth 
while  to  engage  a  musician  at  “full  union  rates”  for  this 
clash  and  I  was,  therefore,  intrusted  with  it.  At  re¬ 
hearsals  I  counted  my  bars  rest  and  watched  for  my  cue 
with  such  perfection  that  the  cymbals  resounded  with 
great  success  at  the  proper  time  and  in  the  proper  manner, 
but  at  the  performance,  alas,  a  great  nervousness  fell 
upon  me  and  as  the  march  proceeded  and  came  nearer 
and  nearer  the  crucial  moment,  my  hand  seemed  para¬ 
lyzed,  and  when  my  father’s  flashing  eye  indicated  to  me 
that  the  moment  had  come,  I  simply  could  not  seem  to 
lift  the  cymbals  which  suddenly  weighed  like  a  hundred 
tons.  The  march  went  on  but  I  felt  that  the  entire  eve¬ 
ning  had  been  ruined  by  me  and  that  every  one  in  the 
audience  must  know  that  I  had  “funked  it.”  As  soon 
as  I  could  I  slipped  out  of  the  orchestra  pit  underneath 
the  stage  and  into  the  dark  night,  feeling  that  life  had  no 
joy  left  for  me.  I  could  not  bear  to  hear  the  rest  of  the 
opera  or  to  meet  my  father’s  reproachful  eye. 


II 


BAYREUTH  IN  1876— MY  DOLUS  THEATRE 

In  the  summer  of  1876  Wagner  inaugurated  the  Bay¬ 
reuth  Theatre  with  the  first  production  of  his  great 
“  Nibelungen  Trilogy.”  All  the  old  friends  and  the  musi¬ 
cians  who  had  been  in  the  forefront  of  the  fight  in  the 
early  days  when  Wagner’s  genius  was  not  generally  recog¬ 
nized,  gathered  there  from  far  and  near  in  order  to  be 
present  at  what  was  destined  to  be  a  magnificent  demon¬ 
stration  of  the  final  triumph  of  the  cause. 

My  father,  naturally,  was  keen  to  be  there  and  to  re¬ 
joice  with  his  old  colleagues.  He  had  not  returned  to 
Germany  since  he  had  left  it  in  1871  to  found  a  home  for 
his  family  in  the  New  World.  He  had  never  regretted 
this  step,  but  many  bonds  of  sentiment  and  many  old 
friends  drew  him  to  Europe.  Alas,  he  had  no  money  for 
such  a  trip  and  there  seemed  no  way  of  obtaining  it. 
There  was  a  lottery  formed  by  a  few  Wagner  enthusiasts 
the  proceeds  of  which  should  go  to  the  Bayreuth  Fund. 
The  winner  of  the  lucky  number  was  to  receive  a  ticket 
for  the  first  performance,  and  my  father  bought  a  number, 
but  of  course  he  did  not  win,  and  there  was  the  price  of 
the  steamship  passage  to  pay  and  the  expenses  of  main¬ 
tenance  in  Europe  besides.  In  his  despair  he  told  his 
old  friend  Schirmer,  the  New  York  music  publisher,  of 
his  distress  and  Schirmer  immediately  said: 

“Doctor,  you  simply  must  go,  and  here  is  a  loan  of 
five  hundred  dollars,  which  you  can  repay  me  whenever 
you  can  afford  it.” 


13 


14 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


This  was  so  friendly  and  generous  an  act  that  it  gives 
me  pleasure  to  record  it  here,  especially  as  his  two  sons, 
Rudolph  and  Gustav,  also  continued  on  terms  of  friend¬ 
liest  intimacy  with  me  from  boyhood  to  their  all-too-pre- 
mature  deaths.  Another  friend  of  my  father,  Charles  A. 
Dana,  the  great  editor  of  the  New  York  Sun  asked  him  to 
write  some  articles  on  his  Bayreuth  experiences  for  The 
Sun  and  paid  him  another  five  hundred  dollars,  so  that 
my  father  was  liberally  supplied  with  funds  for  his  trip 
to  Europe. 

This  visit,  the  reunion  with  Wagner,  Liszt,  Raff, 
Lassen,  Porges,  and  hosts  of  other  old  friends,  together 
with  all  the  marvels  of  the  first  production  of  the  “Nibe- 
Iungen  Trilogy,”  refreshed  my  father  immensely  in  body 
and  spirit,  and  when  he  returned  home  and  recounted  to 
us  all  the  glories  of  the  trip,  I  fairly  ached  with  the  joy  of 
it  and  immediately  proceeded  to  spend  all  my  pocket 
money  in  the  making  of  a  very  remarkable  doIPs  theatre 
about  three  feet  wide  and  equally  high  in  order  to  produce 
Wagner  myself.  I  painted  all  the  scenery  and  the  actor 
dolls  for  it,  and  had  the  most  brilliant  lighting  effects  and 
a  curtain  that  went  up  and  down  with  a  perfection  not 
always  witnessed  even  on  the  real  stage. 

As  I  had  some  talent  for  painting  and  had  attended 
the  drawing  classes  at  Cooper  Union,  I  knew  something 
of  colors  and  perspective  and  delighted  especially  in  de¬ 
signing  interiors  of  palaces  with  dozens  of  pillars  which, 
beginning  in  large  size  at  the  proscenium,  would  dwindle 
down  to  the  smallest  pillarets,  gradually  lost  in  the  dim 
distances,  so  that  my  palaces  always  looked  as  if  they 
were  miles  long. 

My  fellow  director  was  my  boy  friend,  Gustav  Schirmer, 
son  of  the  publisher,  and  our  first  production  was,  of 


BAYREUTH  IN  1876 


i5 


course,  a  Wagner  music  drama.  Gustav’s  mother  was 
an  enthusiastic  Wagnerite  who  eventually  spent  much  of 
her  life  in  Bayreuth  and  Weimar.  “Rhinegold”  seemed 
to  me  especially  fitted  for  our  theatre  as  it  offered  almost 
boundless  scenic  opportunities.  The  effect  of  water  in 
the  first  scene  which  is  supposed  to  depict  the  depths  of 
the  Rhine,  I  achieved  very  successfully  by  several  alter¬ 
nate  curtains  of  blue  and  green  gauze,  and  behind  the 
rocky  reef  in  the  centre  of  this  scene  a  gas-burner  was 
very  cleverly  hidden,  the  light  of  which,  as  it  gradually 
increased  in  strength,  brilliantly  simulated  the  awakening 
of  the  “Rhinegold.” 

The  united  children  of  the  Schirmer  and  Damrosch 
families  together  with  their  elders  constituted  the  audi¬ 
ence.  The  children  paid  fifty  cents  admission,  but  both 
Gustav  and  I  permitted  our  respective  parents  to  con¬ 
tribute  as  much  above  that  as  their  generosity  would 
permit,  and  we  looked  on  it  as  very  much  the  same  kind 
of  a  subvention  as  the  king  of  Bavaria  had  allowed  Wag¬ 
ner  at  Bayreuth. 

The  theatre  had  been  very  cleverly  placed  in  the  door¬ 
way  between  two  rooms,  but  as  the  piano  was  in  the  same 
room  where  the  audience  sat,  I  had  to  rush  backward  and 
forward  continually.  For  instance,  when  Gustav  pulled 
the  curtain  to  disclose  the  depths  of  the  Rhine,  I  played 
the  Rhine  music,  then  would  creep  back  under  the  table 
on  which  the  theatre  was  placed  and  help  him  manipulate 
the  Rhine  Maidens.  Then  I  would  rush  back  again  to 
play  the  music  accompanying  the  awakening  of  the  Gold 
and  so  on  until  the  change  of  scene  when,  as  the  rising 
sun  shines  upon  the  mighty  walls  of  Walhalla,  I  would 
reproduce  the  stately  harmonies  of  the  Walhalla  motive. 

As  I  look  back  on  it  now,  it  must  have  been  an  abso- 


i6 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Iutely  crazy  performance,  but  the  audience  was  hugely 
delighted  and  contributed  so  liberally  that  my  co-director 
and  I  had  a  surplus  with  which  to  begin  preparations  for 
another  play. 

Some  parents  on  reading  this  may  think  that  all  this 
was  a  huge  waste  of  time,  but  I  cannot  agree  with  them. 
Quite  apart  from  the  fact  that  it  taught  me  a  good  deal 
in  the  use  of  the  brush,  it  was  a  great  stimulus  to  the 
imagination  and  a  welcome  outlet  for  the  desire  all  chil¬ 
dren  have  to  live  in  a  make-believe  world  of  fancy.  At 
any  rate,  Gustav  Schirmer  and  I  can  claim  that  we  were 
the  first  to  produce  Wagner’s  “Rhinegold”  in  America, 
and  it  is  possible  that  this  was  the  germ  for  my  decision 
eighteen  years  later  to  form  the  Damrosch  Opera  Com¬ 
pany  solely  for  the  purpose  of  producing  Wagner  through¬ 
out  America. 

The  dolls’  theatre  was,  however,  not  my  only  diversion 
from  my  school  and  musical  studies. 

At  one  Christmas  my  father  and  mother  gave  me  a  very 
complete  tool  chest,  with  which  I  fashioned,  among  other 
things,  a  dolls’  house  for  my  sisters  and  quite  a  little  fleet 
of  boats.  I  remember  one  three-master,  about  three  feet 
in  length,  the  wood  for  which  I  obtained  from  a  foreman 
at  the  Steinway  piano  factory,  then  situated  on  Park 
Avenue.  This  three-master  with  all  sails  set  won  several 
races  for  me  on  the  pond  in  Central  Park. 

In  those  days,  Central  Park  was  considered  very  far 
uptown,  and  where  now  the  palaces  of  millionaires  flank 
its  borders,  Irish  squatters  lived  in  improvised  huts  around 
which  goats  would  gain  a  meagre  livelihood  from  the 
rocks  stretching  on  all  sides.  These  squatters  estab¬ 
lished  a  kind  of  lien  on  the  land,  which  I  believe  was  recog¬ 
nized  as  having  some  legal  force  when  the  property  be- 


V. 


FRANK  AND  WALTER  DAMROSCH,  BRESLAU,  JUNE  1S71 
From  a  picture  taken  just  before  sailing  for  America 


BAYREUTH  IN  1876 


17 


came  more  and  more  valuable  and  the  owners  began  to 
grade  the  land  for  residential  purposes. 

Just  as  in  the  early  days  in  Breslau,  we  continued  to 
celebrate  Christmas  Eve  in  America  in  the  good  old 
fashion.  Weeks  before,  a  delicious  atmosphere  of  mys¬ 
tery  and  secrecy  began  to  envelop  every  member  of  the 
family.  The  “front  parlor”  became  taboo  for  us  children. 
Packages  began  to  arrive  and  were  stored  there.  The 
Christmas  tree,  which  was  always  carefully  chosen  by  my 
mother  and  which,  according  to  old  regulations,  had  to 
touch  the  ceiling  with  its  top,  was  brought  in  in  the  eve¬ 
ning  after  we  had  been  carefully  “shooed”  upstairs  into 
our  respective  bedrooms. 

Dozens  of  sheets  of  gold  and  silver  paper  were  cut  by 
us  into  glittering  garlands  for  the  tree  and  we  were,  of 
course,  expected  to  present  our  parents  on  Christmas 
eve  with  something  fashioned  by  our  own  hands,  or  to  be 
able  to  recite  a  poem  or  play  a  new  piano  solo.  Of  all 
this  they  were  supposed  to  know  nothing  until  the  great 
day  arrived,  although  they  must  have  heard  our  dreary 
practising  of  it  for  weeks  before. 

The  celebration  was  held  on  Christmas  eve,  before 
supper.  My  father  and  mother  would  disappear  into 
the  forbidden  room  to  light  the  hundred  candles  on  the 
tree  and  put  the  last  touches  on  the  heaps  of  presents. 
Then  my  father  would  play  a  march  on  the  piano  and 
we  would  all  troop  in  and  stand  breathless  before  the 
tree  so  beautifully  illuminated  by  the  gentle  light  of 
the  candles.  Our  presents  would,  of  course,  consist 
mainly  of  necessities  in  clothing  and  underclothing, 
shoes,  etc.,  which  we  would  have  received  anyhow,  but 
which  gained  an  added  glow  because  of  the  occasion. 
But  there  were  always  books,  and  the  tree  was  crowded 


i8 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


with  cakes  and  candies  and  gay-colored  paper  flowers 
and  there  were  toys  and  joyous  singing  of  Christmas 
songs  and  hymns  around  the  tree.  Then  would  come  a 
delicious  supper,  accompanied  by  a  cup  of  which  Rhine 
wine  and  sliced  pineapples  were  the  constituent  parts. 

After  supper  we  children  had  to  recite  our  verses  or 
play  our  piano  solos,  and,  alas,  these  exhibitions  sometimes 
ended  in  tears,  as  the  exciting  events  that  preceded  this 
contribution  to  the  festivities  sometimes  blunted  our 
memories  and  we  would  get  “ stuck”  in  the  middle. 
Then  we  would  cast  a  frightened  glance  at  my  father,  who 
would,  perhaps,  look  rather  serious  until  mother’s  smile 
or  some  joking  remark  would  put  him  and  us  in  good 
humor  again. 

Those  wonderful  Christmas  celebrations  of  my  child¬ 
hood  continued  into  my  married  life.  Then  when  my 
children  came,  besides  participating  in  my  mother’s 
tree,  we  tried,  my  wife  and  I,  to  bring  into  our  own  home 
on  this  beautiful  day  a  kind  of  festive  celebration  which 
should  pass  on  to  our  children  and  friends  that  which  my 
father  and  mother  and  Tante  Marie  had  so  freely  given 
to  me. 

We  have  had  some  wonderfully  jolly  Christmases. 
My  four  children  and  their  cousin,  Walker  Blaine  Beale, 
took  on  themselves  the  loving  burden  of  our  entertain¬ 
ment.  A  play  was  sometimes  written  or  charades  impro¬ 
vised,  for  which  upstairs  closets  were  ransacked  for  cos¬ 
tumes  and  other  paraphernalia  in  such  haste  and  amid 
such  ruthless  confusion  that  Minna,  our  old  Swedish 
nurse,  who  has  been  in  our  family  since  the  birth  of  my 
oldest  daughter,  would  often  throw  up  her  hands  in  horror 
at  the  bedrooms,  which  indeed  looked  as  if  a  tornado  had 
swept  over  them.  I  remember  a  delicious  take-off  on 


BAYREUTH  IN  1876 


i9 


“Pelleas  et  Melisande”  which  my  oldest  daughter,  Alice, 
wrote.  I  had  given  a  number  of  lecture  recitals  on  the 
opera  the  previous  season  and  it  was  much  in  the  family 
mind.  Then  another  year  a  drama  on  “The  North  Pole” 
was  written.  This  was  just  after  the  dispute  between 
Peary  and  Cook  as  to  the  discovery  of  the  pole.  There 
was  a  real  shiver  when  we  were  heralded  back  to  our 
transformed  parlor.  The  Christmas  tree  had  quickly 
become  a  lonely  pine  outlined  against  bleak  areas  of 
farthest  north  cotton  sheets,  stretching  in  all  directions 
over  “hummocks”  of  sofas  and  chairs.  Our  five  children, 
for  Walker  seemed  as  much  our  very  own  in  these  cele¬ 
brations  as  my  own  four  girls,  gave  us  a  wonderfully 
spirited  drama  of  the  conquest  of  the  polar  regions  ! 

I  can  see  and  hear  dear  David  Bispham  laugh,  my  old 
friends  Doctor  and  Mrs.  George  Harris’s  enthusiasm, 
Margaret  Anglin,  Julie  Faversham.  .  .  .  Our  happy, 
happy  Christmases ! 

The  last  Christmas  party  at  our  home  was  that  of  1916. 
Then  in  1917  Walker  was  training  at  Camp  Dix  and  we 
all  went  out  with  his  mother  and  spent  Christmas  Day  at 
an  inn  near  by  to  which  he  could  come.  There  was  a 
rumor  everywhere  that  his  regiment  was  to  embark  for 
overseas  in  a  few  days,  although  he  really  did  not  sail 
until  May.  We  all  did  our  best  to  make  it  gay  in  that 
hotel  dining-room,  the  rain  falling  dismally.  We  were 
so  proud  of  our  young  khaki-uniformed  lieutenant !  My 
Polly  played  and  played,  rags,  anything  and  everything, 
on  the  old  hotel  piano.  We  did  not  know  it  was  to  be 
our  last  happy  Christmas  together,  but  war  had  already 
given  to  joy  a  kind  of  yearning  anguish. 

My  nephew  was  killed  the  18th  of  the  following  Sep¬ 
tember,  1918,  at  Saint-Mihiel.  Reconnoitring  to  assure 


20 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


the  safety  of  his  men,  he  leaped  a  fence  to  join  three 
fellow  officers.  A  shell  tore  them  to  pieces.  This  was 
in  the  early  afternoon.  Walker  was  taken  to  a  field 
hospital  and  died  at  eleven  that  night. 

We  know  that  he  did  not  suffer  very  much,  and  we 
think  we  know  that  he  never  understood  how  severely 
he  was  wounded,  that  he  never  knew  that  what,  as  a 
soldier,  he  so  freely  offered  had  been  accepted. 

He  was  his  grandfather’s,  Mr.  Blaine’s,  youngest  grand¬ 
son,  only  twenty-two,  his  mother’s  only  son,  our  brightest 
and  best. 

There  is  no  day  we  do  not  think  of  him,  but  Christmas, 
the  day  of  giving,  is  his  own  especial  day. 

On  a  frigid  day  last  winter  (January,  1922)  travelling 
with  my  wife  on  an  untidy,  dilapidated  post-war  train 
through  Germany,  on  my  way  to  Stockholm  to  fill  an 
engagement  to  conduct  the  orchestra  there,  we  read  in 
an  English  magazine  an  article  on  Tennyson  ending  with 
a  description  of  the  old  graveyard  in  which  lie  the  bodies 
of  his  two  grandsons,  both  killed  in  the  war.  “I  did  not 
know,”  I  said,  looking  out  over  the  black  wintry  flat 
German  country,  “that  Tennyson  lost  two  grandsons  in 
the  war !” 

“But  so  did  my  father,”  my  wife  said  proudly,  and  she 
spoke  truly,  for  another  nephew,  Emmons  Blaine  of 
Chicago  was  no  less  a  war  victim  than  Walker.  Unable 
to  pass  the  physical  tests  required  to  enter  the  army  he 
agonized  to  find  the  nation’s  greatest  need  behind  the 
lines  in  which  to  enlist.  He  chose  shipbuilding  and 
offered  himself  as  a  workman  at  Hogg  Island,  near 
Philadelphia.  Although  never  overstrong,  he  worked 
early  and  late,  and  fell  a  victim  of  the  terrible  epidemic 
of  the  “flu,”  dying  at  Lansdown  on  October  9,  1918. 


BAYREUTH  IN  1876 


21 


Though  Walker  had  already  died  in  France,  we  knew 
only  at  the  time  that  he  was  wounded.  Of  his  death 
we  learned  four  days  later.  Thus  these  two  cousins, 
Emmons  and  Walker,  are  forever  enshrined  together  in 
our  anguish,  in  our  pride,  and  in  our  love. 


Ill 


FOUNDING  OF  THE  SYMPHONY  AND  ORATORIO 

SOCIETIES  OF  NEW  YORK 

In  1873  Anton  Rubinstein,  greatest  of  Russian  pianists, 
accompanied  by  the  violinist  Wieniawski,  came  to  Amer¬ 
ica  by  invitation  of  Steinway  and  Sons.  He  dined  at 
our  house  and  expressed  wonder  that  my  father  had  not 
yet  been  able  to  achieve  a  position  in  New  York  com¬ 
mensurate  with  his  reputation  and  capacity.  My  father 
explained  to  him  how  difficult  the  situation  was  and  that 
the  entire  orchestral  field  was  monopolized  by  Theodore 
Thomas.  He  told  Rubinstein  that  when  he  had  first 
arrived  in  New  York  he  had  met  Thomas  at  the  music 
store  of  Edward  Schubert  in  Union  Square  and  that  after 
the  introduction  Thomas  had  said  to  him: 

“I  hear,  Doctor  Damrosch,  that  you  are  a  very  fine 
musician,  but  I  want  to  tell  you  one  thing:  whoever 
crosses  my  path  I  crush.” 

Thomas  at  that  time  really  believed  that  America  was 
not  large  enough  to  contain  more  than  one  orchestra, 
but  he  lived  long  enough  to  see  my  father  surpass  him  at 
the  head  of  a  symphony  orchestra,  as  founder  of  the 
first  great  music  festival  in  New  York  and,  above  all,  of 
opera  in  German  at  the  Metropolitan. 

In  1881  the  first  symphony  orchestra  on  a  permanent 
basis  had  been  founded  in  Boston  by  Colonel  Higginson, 
and  before  Thomas’s  death  there  were  half  a  dozen  great 


22 


SYMPHONY  AND  ORATORIO  SOCIETIES  23 


subsidized  orchestras  actively  operating  in  the  United 
States,  a  number  which  has  since  then  increased  to  twelve. 

Rubinstein  said  to  my  father:  “Why  don’t  you  begin 
by  founding  an  oratorio  society,  and  that  will  lead  to 
other  things?” 

My  father  consulted  a  few  devoted  friends,  and  the 
Oratorio  Society  of  New  York  was  accordingly  founded 
in  1873  and  began  rehearsals  in  the  Trinity  Chapel  with 
a  chorus  of  about  eighteen  singers,  my  mother’s  glorious 
voice  leading  the  sopranos  and  my  very  humble  and  little 
self  among  the  altos.  The  first  performance  took  place 
in  the  warerooms  of  the  Knabe  Piano  Company  the  fol¬ 
lowing  winter,  at  which  time  the  chorus  had  increased 
to  sixty  singers.  The  programme  was  a  remarkable  one 
for  that  period,  containing  a  capella  chorus  and  accom¬ 
panied  choruses  by  Bach,  Mozart,  Handel,  Palestrina, 
and  Mendelssohn. 

From  this  small  beginning  the  society  developed  until 
it  became  the  foremost  representative  of  choral  music  in 
New  York,  performing,  with  a  chorus  of  three  hundred  and 
fifty  voices,  under  my  father’s  direction,  the  older  ora¬ 
torios  of  Handel,  Haydn,  and  Mendelssohn,  and  such 
novelties  as  the  first  part  of  “Christus”  by  Liszt,  the 
Berlioz  “Requiem”  and  “Damnation  of  Faust,”  the 
Brahms  “Requiem,”  Cowen’s  “St.  Ursula,”  the  choral 
finale  from  the  first  act  of  “Parsifal,”  and  the  third  act 
of  “Meistersinger.” 

Indirectly,  but  logically,  the  founding  of  the  Oratorio 
Society  led  to  the  founding  of  the  Symphony  Society  of 
New  York  in  1877,  which  at  last  gave  my  father  an  or¬ 
chestra  with  which  he  could  demonstrate  his  abilities  as 
a  symphonic  conductor. 

The  differences  between  him  and  Thomas  were  very 


24 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


marked.  Thomas,  who  had  educated  himself  entirely 
in  America,  had  always  striven  for  great  cleanliness  of 
execution,  a  metronomical  accuracy  and  rigidity  of  tempo, 
and  a  strict  and  literal  (and  therefore  rather  mechanical) 
observance  of  the  signs  put  down  by  the  composers. 
America  owed  him  a  great  debt  of  gratitude  for  the  high 
quality  of  his  programmes.  My  father  had  been  edu¬ 
cated  in  a  more  modern  school  of  interpretation,  and  his 
readings  were  emotionally  more  intense.  He  was  the  first 
conductor  in  this  country  to  make  those  fine  and  deli¬ 
cate  gradations  in  tempo  according  to  the  inner  demands 
of  the  music,  gradations  which  are  too  subtle  to  be  indi¬ 
cated  by  the  composer’s  signs,  as  that  would  lead  to  exag¬ 
gerations,  but  which  are  now  generally  considered  as 
necessary  in  order  to  bring  out  the  melos  of  a  work. 

Both  conductors  had  their  violent  partisans,  and,  as 
they  were  at  that  time  literally  the  only  orchestral  con¬ 
ductors  in  America,  feeling  ran  very  high.  My  father 
was  the  last  comer,  and  Thomas  was  well  fortified  in  the 
field,  with  a  group  of  wealthy  men  to  support  him.  The 
first  years  for  my  father  were  very  hard  and  a  portion  of 
the  New  York  papers  assailed  him  bitterly,  continuously, 
and  with  vindictive  enmity.  Again  and  again  dreams  of 
murder  would  fill  my  boyish  heart  when  I  would  read 
one  of  these  attacks  in  the  morning  paper. 

It  was  hard  work  to  keep  the  two  societies  going  and 
to  enable  them  to  meet  the  bills  for  hall  rent,  soloists, 
and  orchestra.  There  was  as  yet  but  a  small  public  for 
the  higher  forms  of  music,  and  again  and  again  it  looked 
as  if  further  efforts  would  have  to  be  abandoned.  But 
my  father  persevered  and  struggled  on,  making  a  living 
for  his  family  by  teaching  violin,  composition,  and  sing¬ 
ing,  and  occasionally  getting  a  fee  of  “a  hundred  dollars 


SYMPHONY  AND  ORATORIO  SOCIETIES  25 


in  gold”  as  violin  soloist  or  in  a  chamber-music  concert, 
officiating  as  musical  director  in  a  church  and  as  con¬ 
ductor  of  the  German  male  choral  society,  the  Arion. 

The  first  production  of  Symphony  No.  1,  in  C  minor, 
by  Brahms  became  a  subject  of  intense  rivalry  between 
the  two  conductors.  Brahms  had  waited  until  his  for¬ 
tieth  year  before  writing  a  symphony,  and  the  work  was 
eagerly  awaited  in  New  York,  as  the  reports  from  Ger¬ 
many  proved  that  it  had  made  a  sensation. 

My  father  went  to  see  old  Gustav  Schirmer  at  his 
store  on  Broadway  and  asked  him  whether  the  orchestral 
score  of  this  work  had  yet  arrived.  Schirmer  told  him 
that  it  had,  but  that  he  was  in  honor  bound  to  give  it  to 
Theodore  Thomas  as  he  had  promised  it  to  him.  My 
father  was  very  much  chagrined  to  think  that  this  prize 
should  thus  have  escaped  him,  and  he  spoke  of  this  very 
regretfully  to  a  pupil  of  his  in  composition,  Mrs.  James 
Neilson,  member  of  an  aristocratic  old  family  in  New 
Brunswick,  New  Jersey,  and  a  woman  of  great  beauty  and 
distinction.  Mrs.  Neilson  said  nothing  to  my  father 
but  quietly  went  down  to  Schirmer’s  and  inquired  of  the 
clerk  whether  the  orchestral  score  of  the  Brahms  sym¬ 
phony  had  arrived,  and  when  he  answered  in  the  affirma¬ 
tive,  she  asked  whether  it  was  for  sale.  Certainly,” 
answered  the  clerk. 

She  thereupon  purchased  a  copy  of  the  score  and  sent 
it  up  to  my  father  with  her  compliments.  His  astonish¬ 
ment  was  intense,  but  she  did  not  tell  him  until  weeks 
afterward  how  she  had  obtained  it. 

He  received  the  score  on  a  Thursday  and  the  first  re¬ 
hearsal  for  the  next  concert  was  to  take  place  on  the  fol¬ 
lowing  Monday.  This  left  but  little  time  to  obtain  the 
necessary  orchestral  parts  and  Schirmer  naturally  would 


26 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


not  sell  him  any.  He  therefore  cut  the  score  into  three 
parts  and  divided  them  among  three  copyists,  who  worked 
day  and  night  and  managed  to  have  the  parts  ready 
in  time  for  the  rehearsal.  Great  was  the  triumph  in  the 
Damrosch  camp  at  this  victory  over  the  Thomas  forces. 

Some  years  later  I  gave  the  first  performances  in  New 
York  of  the  Third  and  Fourth  Brahms  Symphonies,  but 
I  had  no  need  to  resort  to  strategem  to  obtain  the  scores 
and  orchestral  parts. 

Orchestral  conditions  were  bad  compared  with  to-day. 
There  was  no  such  thing  as  a  “permanent  orchestra.” 
The  musicians  of  the  Symphony  Society,  for  instance, 
played  in  six  symphony  concerts  during  the  winter,  each 
preceded  by  a  public  rehearsal.  They  also  officiated  at 
four  concerts  of  the  Oratorio  Society,  and  this  was  almost 
the  extent  of  their  efforts  in  that  direction.  The  rest  of 
the  time  they  made  their  living  by  teaching,  playing 
in  theatres,  at  dances,  and  some  of  them  even  at  political 
or  military  processions  and  mass  meetings.  If  a  better 
“job”  came  along  than  the  symphony  concert  they  would 
simply  send  my  father  a  substitute.  Small  wonder  that 
occasionally  their  lips  gave  out  and  the  first  horn  or 
trumpet  would  break  on  an  important  note  during  a 
symphony  concert.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  this  dishearten¬ 
ing  condition,  my  father  succeeded  in  infusing  the  orches¬ 
tral  players  with  such  emotional  intensity,  and  in  impart¬ 
ing  so  lofty  an  interpretation  to  them,  that  the  audiences 
of  that  day  were  often  roused  to  the  greatest  enthusiasm; 
and  I  would  tuck  my  arm  very  proudly  into  his  as  we 
marched  home  from  a  concert,  even  though  we  knew 
that  the  subscription  to  the  concert  was  not  more  than 
eight  hundred  dollars  and  the  single  sale  at  the  box  office 
had  not  reached  the  hundred  dollar  mark. 


SYMPHONY  AND  ORATORIO  SOCIETIES  27 


But  all  this  was  changed  like  a  flash  in  the  year  1879 
when  my  father  decided  to  perform  “The  Damnation  of 
Faust/’  by  Berlioz,  until  then  unknown  in  America. 
This  concert,  which  was  held  at  Steinway  Hall,  in  East 
14th  Street,  necessitated  the  services  of  solo  singers,  the 
New  York  Symphony  Orchestra,  the  chorus  of  the  New 
York  Oratorio  Society  and  the  male  chorus  of  the  Arion 
Society. 

The  work  and  the  performance  made  a  sensation.  All 
New  York  buzzed  with  it,  and  during  that  winter,  1879, 
it  was  given  five  times  in  succession  to  crowded  houses, 
creating  an  excitement  such  as  New  York  had  never  be¬ 
fore  seen  in  the  concert  field. 

I  played  in  all  these  performances  at  the  last  stand  of 
the  second  violins,  as  my  father  considered  it  of  the  ut¬ 
most  value  to  me  as  a  future  conductor  to  be  able  to  fol¬ 
low  the  conductor’s  beat  as  one  of  the  orchestra. 


IV 


AUGUST  WILHELMJ— TERESA  CARRENO 

In  the  spring  of  1878  Maurice  Strakosch,  an  old  con¬ 
cert  manager,  called  on  my  father  and  asked  him  whether 
he  would  permit  me  to  go  on  a  Southern  concert  tour  with 
the  celebrated  violinist,  August  Wilhelmj,  who  was  then 
touring  the  country  under  Strakosch  management.  Mr. 
Max  Liebling,  his  regular  accompanist,  had  been  taken  ill 
and  as  both  Wilhelm;  and  Strakosch  knew  that  I  had  ac¬ 
companied  my  father  a  great  deal  at  home,  they  thought 
that  I  could  acceptably  fill  the  position  at  such  short 
notice.  I  was  naturally  wild  with  delight  at  the  idea  and 
prevailed  on  my  father  to  let  me  go.  I  was  to  receive 
the,  for  me,  munificent  salary  of  a  hundred  dollars  a  week 
and  all  my  railway  expenses. 

We  set  forth  the  following  Monday,  the  company  con¬ 
sisting  of  Wilhelmj,  a  soprano  singer  whose  name  I  have 
forgotten,  and  Teresa  Carreno,  who  was  then  already  a 
great  pianist  and  certainly  the  most  beautiful  woman  I 
had  ever  seen. 

Wilhelmj,  who  was  exceedingly  lazy,  refused  even  to 
rehearse  with  me.  Our  first  concert  was  in  Washington 
and  I  was  to  accompany  him,  among  other  things,  in 
the  Mendelssohn  Violin  Concerto.  I  was  naturally 
nervous  about  it,  and  to  my  delighted  astonishment,  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  concert,  Carreno  turned  on  Wil¬ 
helmj,  reproaching  him  for  not  giving  me  a  rehearsal  and  * 
insisting  that  rather  than  put  me  to  such  an  unfair  strain, 
she  would  accompany  him  in  the  concerto  herself.  This 

28 


AUGUST  WILHELMJ— TERESA  CARRENO  29 


was  a  characteristic  act  of  this  remarkable  artist  and 
woman,  and  I  shall  speak  more  in  detail  about  my  im¬ 
mediate  adoration  for  her  in  another  chapter. 

In  Washington  Baron  von  Schloetzer,  the  Prussian 
minister,  who  was  an  old  friend  of  my  father’s,  received 
me  very  kindly,  and,  to  my  delight,  included  me  in  the 
dinner  which  he  gave  in  honor  of  Wilhelmj  and  Carreno. 
He  was  an  original  and  delightful  old  bachelor  and  wildly 
fond  of  music,  although  his  only  accomplishment  in  that 
line  was  a  real  talent  for  whistling,  his  piece  de  resistance 
being  the  “Tannhauser  Overture,”  in  which  he  would 
whistle  the  “Pilgrim’s  Chorus”  and  the  fluttering  accom¬ 
panying  violins  seemingly  at  the  same  time. 

At  his  dinner  he  treated  me  somewhat  as  an  older  man 
would  a  child,  and  would  tell  his  butler  to  my  great 
chagrin  to  only  half  fill  my  glass  because  I  was  too  young 
to  drink  as  much  as  the  older  people.  He  had  several 
rare  vintages  of  claret  standing  on  the  sideboard  and 
some  of  these  I  was  not  allowed  even  to  taste,  all  for  the 
same  reason. 

After  dinner  both  Wilhelmj  and  Carreno  played  and 
then  the  beautiful  Mme.  de  Hagemann,  American  wife  of 
the  Swedish  Minister,  sang  most  delightfully.  She  has 
since  written  charming  memoirs  of  her  earlier  diplomatic 
life  abroad,  especially  of  the  Court  of  Napoleon  the  Third 
just  before  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  entitled  “Courts 
of  Memory.” 

From  Washington  we  went  farther  and  farther  South 
and  my  young  mind  was  tremendously  impressed  by  its 
romantic  atmosphere,  the  luxuriant  tropical  foliage  and 
the  lazy,  cheerful  life  of  the  “niggers”  swarming  every¬ 
where. 

At  Macon,  Georgia,  Wilhelmj  and  I  stopped  at  an  old 


30 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


ramshackle  hotel  in  two  rooms  en  suite.  We  did  not 
wake  up  until  about  eleven  o’clock  the  following  morning, 
feeling  very  heavy  and  headachy,  and  on  examination 
found  our  trunks  rifled  of  whatever  valuables  they  con¬ 
tained.  We  had  evidently  been  chloroformed.  A  burly 
detective  was  engaged  by  Wilhelmj  to  take  charge  of 
the  case,  but  of  course  nothing  happened  except  that 
Wilhelmj  and  I  purchased  revolvers.  His  was  very  large 
and  mine  very  small  and  this  is  about  the  only  weapon 
that  I  ever  acquired,  and  of  course  never  used. 

New  Orleans  was  a  real  revelation.  It  was  then  still 
an  absolutely  French  city.  I  was  invited  to  dinner  at 
several  delightful  Creole  families  and  French  was  the 
language  at  table.  The  old  Creole  restaurants  were  at 
the  height  of  their  glory,  and  such  delicious  crabs, 
pompano,  and  shrimps  I  had  never  eaten  before.  Alas, 
their  nice  sanded  floors  have  been  replaced  by  dancing 
parquets,  and  noisy  ragtime  bands  and  wretched  cooking 
are  but  poor  substitutes  for  their  past  glories. 

THE  MUSIC  FESTIVAL  OF  1881 

During  the  summer  of  1880  my  father  conceived  the 
idea  of  giving  a  monster  music  festival  in  May,  1881, 
which  was  to  last  a  week  and  for  which  a  chorus  of  one 
thousand  two  hundred,  of  which  the  Oratorio  Society 
should  be  the  nucleus,  was  to  be  trained  in  sections  dur¬ 
ing  the  entire  winter.  He  conferred  with  some  of  his 
friends,  outlined  his  project  to  them,  and  a  Music  Festi¬ 
val  Association  composed  of  the  directors  of  his  Symphony 
and  Oratorio  Societies  was  formed.  Other  prominent 
New  York  citizens  were  added  and  a  guarantee  fund  was 
provided,  ample  to  protect  the  project  financially. 


AUGUST  WILHELMJ— TERESA  CARRENO  31 


Although  I  was  only  eighteen,  my  father  deemed  me 
sufficiently  advanced  to  intrust  the  drilling  of  a  great 
portion  of  this  chorus  to  me,  a  confidence  of  which  I  was 
very  proud. 

The  entire  summer  of  1880  I  spent  in  the  little  New 
England  town  of  Amherst.  A  very  remarkable  French¬ 
man,  Doctor  Sauveur  by  name,  had  perfected  a  new 
system  of  teaching  French  and  Latin,  and  Amherst  Col¬ 
lege  had  turned  its  buildings  over  to  him  for  a  summer 
course.  It  seemed  to  my  father  and  me  that  this  was 
an  excellent  opportunity  for  me  to  acquire  the  rudiments 
of  these  two  languages. 

I  accordingly  arrived  in  Amherst  armed  with  a  grand 
piano,  reams  of  music  paper,  and  the  orchestral  score  of 
the  great  Berlioz’s  “Requiem,”  which  my  father  had 
selected  as  one  of  the  works  to  be  performed  at  the  Festi¬ 
val.  There  was  no  piano  score  in  existence  and,  to  my 
joy,  my  father  intrusted  me  with  the  task  of  making  one 
from  the  original  orchestral  score. 

I  obtained  a  lovely  bedroom  from  a  farmer  on  the  main 
street  for  the  opulent  price  of  two  and  a  half  dollars  a 
week,  and  my  grand  piano  was  installed  in  the  parlor,  of 
which  I  had  the  entire  use  for  four  hours  a  day  to  prac¬ 
tise.  My  meals  I  got  at  the  principal  little  hotel  for  six 
dollars  a  week  and  when  the  genial  proprietor  saw  me 
consuming  my  first  dinner  he  said: 

“Ef  I  had  known  you  et  that  hearty  I  would  have 
charged  you  more.  I  won’t  make  nothin’  out  of  you.” 

The  meals  were  certainly  delicious,  and  at  eighteen 
one’s  capacity  in  that  direction  is  unlimited. 

When  I  arrived  in  May  the  college  was  still  in  session 
and  I  was  made  welcome  by  several  of  the  students, 
among  them  Lawrence  Abbott,  now  editor  of  The  Outlook , 


3^ 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


and  John  Cotton  Smith,  now  rector  of  St.  John’s  in 
Washington. 

My  days  were  certainly  busy  ones.  In  the  morning  I 
attended  the  sessions  of  Doctor  Sauveur  in  French  and 
Latin  and  in  the  afternoon  I  practised  piano  and  worked 
hard  at  the  arranging  of  the  piano  score  of  the  Berlioz 
“Requiem.”  Incidentally,  I  seemed  to  find  plenty  of 
time  for  games  and  fun  of  all  kinds  with  a  delightful 
family  who  had  a  country  place  there  and  where  I  got 
my  first  real  glimpse  of  American  country  life,  which 
is  indeed  unique  and  with  which  no  other  country  can 
compare. 

As  fast  as  the  different  numbers  of  my  arrangement  of 
the  Berlioz  “Requiem”  were  finished,  I  sent  them  on  to 
my  father  who,  after  revising  them,  gave  them  to  the 
publisher  in  order  to  have  the  piano  scores  ready  for  the 
rehearsals  in  the  fall.  He  was  well  pleased  with  my  work, 
especially  the  “Tuba  Mirum,”  in  which  he  thought  that 
I  had  condensed  quite  cleverly  the  four  orchestras  which 
Berlioz  intended  placed  at  the  four  corners  of  the  stage 
to  represent  the  trumpets  of  the  last  judgment. 

When  I  returned  to  New  York  in  September,  my 
father  intrusted  to  me  Section  B  of  the  New  York  Festi¬ 
val  Chorus,  numbering  two  hundred  voices  and  the 
Newark  Harmonic  Society  of  Newark,  New  Jersey, 
numbering  three  hundred.  He  himself  drilled  the  chorus 
of  the  Oratorio  Society  of  four  hundred  at  which  I  always 
played  the  piano  accompaniments,  and  Mr.  Cortada, 
an  old  pupil  of  my  father’s,  trained  a  section  in  Brooklyn 
and  another  in  Nyack,  New  York.  I  hurled  myself  at 
my  task  with  such  vehemence  and  enthusiasm  that  by 
the  time  the  Festival  came  along  my  choruses  were  letter- 
perfect,  but  I  had  become  voiceless.  My  vocal  cords 


DOCTOR  LEOPOLD  DAMROSCH  AND  HIS  SON  WALTER  AT  EIGHTEEN  YEARS  OF  AGE 


* 


AUGUST  WILHELMJ— TERESA  CARRENO  33 


had  quite  gone  back  on  me  in  justifiable  anger  at  my 
abuse  of  them. 

The  choral  works  to  be  performed  included  the  Berlioz 
“Requiem,”  Rubinstein’s  “Tower  of  Babel,”  Handel’s 
“Messiah,”  Beethoven’s  “Ninth  Symphony,”  and  shorter 
selections.  The  monster  chorus  and  orchestra  num¬ 
bered  fifteen  hundred,  and  a  special  stage  and  sounding- 
board  were  built  at  the  Seventh  Regiment  Armory  at 
which  the  Festival  took  place.  The  organ  from  St. 
Vincent’s  Church  was  transferred  bodily,  and  I  was  in¬ 
trusted  with  the  organ  accompaniments.  An  enormous 
audience  of  ten  thousand  people  attended  every  per¬ 
formance,  and  the  public  acclaimed  my  father  with  much 
enthusiasm  as  America’s  greatest  musician.  Such  happy, 
happy  days ! 

Among  the  many  memories  of  this  great  occasion  I 
can  never  forget  the  first  rehearsal  of  the  four  orchestras 
and  sixteen  kettledrums  which  Berlioz  used  in  the  “Tuba 
Mirum”  to  depict  the  Last  Judgment.  This  rehearsal 
took  place  in  the  Foyer  of  the  old  Academy  of  Music  in 
Fourteenth  Street;  and  as  the  sixteen  kettledrums  came 
in  like  one  man  just  as  the  fanfare  of  the  judgment 
Trumpets  begins,  the  effect  of  these  vibrations  in  a  com¬ 
paratively  small  room  was  so  tremendous  that  one  by 
one  the  orchestra  men  arose  and  a  murmur  began  which 
grew  and  grew  and  finally  relieved  itself  in  a  loud  shout 
of  enthusiasm.  It  was  several  minutes  before  my  father 
could  continue  the  rehearsal.  I  have  never  witnessed 
anything  quite  like  it  since.  We  are  now  so  sophisticated 
by  Strauss  and  the  later-day  dissonancers  that  so-called 
instrumental  “effects”  neither  shock  nor  stir  us.  And  as 
regards  the  dissonances  with  which  some  of  the  ultra¬ 
moderns  seek  to  irritate  our  ears,  I  have  always  claimed 


34 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


that  the  human  ear  is  like  the  back  of  a  donkey — if  you 
whip  it  long  enough  and  hard  enough,  it  gradually  be¬ 
comes  insensitive  to  pain. 

Theodore  Thomas  and  his  supporters  were  much  irri¬ 
tated  that  my  father  should  have  “ gotten  ahead”  of 
them  with  so  stupendous  a  musical  demonstration,  and 
they  immediately  proceeded  to  copy  his  idea  by  giving  a 
Music  Festival  the  following  year  in  the  same  building. 

For  me,  the  immediate  result  of  the  Festival  was  my 
election  at  eighteen  years  of  age  as  permanent  conductor 
of  the  Newark  Harmonic  Society.  This  gave  me  the 
long-desired  opportunity  to  produce  choral  works  with 
orchestral  accompaniment,  and  for  several  years  I  gave 
three  or  four  of  these  every  winter,  including  not  only  the 
older  oratorios  of  Handel  and  Mendelssohn,  but  more 
modern  works  like  Berlioz’s  “  Damnation  of  Faust,” 
Rubinstein’s  “Tower  of  Babel,”  the  Verdi  “  Requiem,” 
and  choral  excerpts  from  the  operas  of  Wagner.  All  of 
these  concerts  my  father  attended,  and  after  each  per¬ 
formance  he  would  analyze  my  conducting,  praise  freely 
and  enthusiastically  where  he  thought  I  deserved  it,  and 
also  show  me  where  he  considered  a  tempo  wrong  or 
an  entrance  of  instruments  or  chorus  not  properly  indi¬ 
cated.  My  mother  and  aunt  would  often  lend  their  lovely 
voices  in  the  choruses  at  the  performances  whenever  I 
thought  I  needed  them,  but  they  would  always  insist  in 
the  most  blindly  partisan  way  that  my  concerts  were 
wonderful  and  that  I  was  altogether  a  very  remarkable 
boy. 

This  year  marked  my  real  beginning  as  a  professional 
musician,  and  I  enjoyed  my  weekly  rehearsals  in  Newark 
immensely,  although  horse-cars,  ferry-boats,  and  trains 
made  the  trip  in  those  days  a  cumbersome  one.  But 


AUGUST  WILHELMJ— TERESA  CARRENO  35 


after  each  rehearsal  Mr.  Schuyler  Brinkerhoff  Jackson, 
the  president  of  the  society,  Mr.  Shinkle,  the  secretary, 
my  dear  old  friend  Zach  Belcher,  enthusiastic  tenor  and 
music  lover,  Frank  Sealey,  my  pianist  and  since  then  for 
so  many  years  accompanist  and  organist  of  the  New 
York  Oratorio  Society,  used  to  go  with  me  to  a  nice 
German  beer  saloon  near  the  railroad  station  where,  over 
a  glass  of  beer  and  Swiss-cheese  sandwiches,  we  waited 
until  train  time  and  discussed  the  welfare  of  the  Harmonic 
Society  and  music  in  general.  Alas,  the  Volstead  Law 
has  ended  all  such  simple  and  happy  foregatherings  and 
the  soda-water  counter  with  its  horrible  concoctions  is 
but  a  poor  substitute  for  the  gentle  and  soothing  beer  of 
Pilsen  and  Munich. 


V 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 

In  the  spring  of  1882  I  sailed  for  Europe.  My  father 
wanted  me  to  know  his  old  friend,  Liszt,  and  to  hear 
the  first  performances  of  “Parsifal”  in  Bayreuth.  My 
throat  was  also  still  bothering  me  and  the  doctor  thought 
that  a  cure  at  Ems  would  be  a  good  thing. 

I  was  naturally  overwhelmed  at  the  idea  of  seeing  the 
great  Liszt  face  to  face.  His  name  had  been,  ever  since 
I  could  remember,  a  household  word  in  our  family.  My 
father  and  mother  had  told  me  so  much  of  his  friendship 
for  them,  his  genius  and  his  triumphs  as  a  piano  virtuoso, 
and  of  his  voluntary  relinquishment  of  all  this  to  devote 
himself  exclusively  to  creative  work,  and  toward  helping 
the  entire  modern  school  of  young  composers.  My  father 
had  kept  up  a  desultory  correspondence  with  Liszt  dur¬ 
ing  the  years  he  had  spent  in  America,  and  as  soon  as  I 
arrived  in  Weimar  I  went  to  the  little  gardener’s  cottage 
in  which  he  lived  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  old  master. 
I  entered  his  room  in  great  trepidation,  and  when  I  man¬ 
aged  to  stutter  a  few  words  to  tell  him  that  I  was  the  son 
of  Doctor  Leopold  Damrosch,  I  was  amazed  at  the  kind¬ 
ness  of  his  reception.  He  immediately  spoke  of  my  father 
and  mother  with  such  love  that  I  forgot  some  of  my  timid¬ 
ity.  He  asked  me  about  an  opera  on  Shakespeare’s 
“Romeo  and  Juliet,”  which  my  father  had  composed  in 
the  old  Weimar  days  but  which  he  had  subsequently 
destroyed  as  he  was  dissatisfied  with  it.  He  then  asked 
me  how  long  I  expected  to  stay  in  Weimar.  I  said  two 

36 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


37 


days  and  that  I  was  then  going  to  Ems  for  a  cure  and  then 
to  Bayreuth  to  hear  the  first  “Parsifal”  performances. 

A  curious  change  came  over  Liszt  as  I  spoke.  He  re¬ 
peated  several  times,  “Two  days,  ha,  yes,  ‘Parsifal,’  of 
course,  Bayreuth. — ‘Parsifal,’  of  course,”  and  then  he 
picked  up  a  box  of  cigars. 

“Well,  at  least  you’ll  take  a  cigar  before  you  leave 
Weimar?” 

I  said:  “No,  master,  thank  you  very  much,  I  do  not 
smoke.” 

“You  should  then  go  to-night  to  the  theatre  to  hear 
the  first  performance  of  Calderon’s  play  ‘Above  all 
Magic  is  Love,’  for  which  your  father’s  old  friend  Lassen 
has  written  the  music  and  which  he  will  conduct.” 

I  assured  the  master  that  I  would  certainly  go,  but 
sensing  a  certain  frigidity  in  the  air,  and  feeling  that  so 
unimportant  a  person  as  myself  must  not  take  any  more 
time  of  the  great  Liszt,  I  withdrew. 

That  evening  I  went  to  the  historic  little  theatre  doubly 
hallowed  by  the  productions  and  ministrations  of  Goethe, 
as  well  as  the  memorable  times  in  the  fifties  when  Liszt 
officiated  there  and  conducted  the  first  performances  of 
Wagner’s  “Lohengrin”  in  which  my  mother  had  sung 
Ortrude.  The  theatre  was  so  small  that  you  could  almost 
see  every  person  in  it  as  in  a  drawing-room,  and  to  my 
astonishment,  in  the  first  intermission,  one  of  the  servants 
of  the  theatre  came  to  me  and  asked  me  if  I  were  Herr 
Damrosch.  When  I  answered  in  the  affirmative  he  said 
that  Kapellmeister  Lassen  wished  to  see  me.  I  followed 
him  to  the  stage  and  was  immediately  accosted  by  Lassen 
whom  I  had  not  met  before,  but  of  whom  I  knew,  because 
he  and  my  father  had  been  close  friends  for  many  years. 

He  said:  “What  did  you  do  to  the  master  this  morning? 


38 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


I  came  in  just  after  you  left  and  found  him  in  tears.  He 
said,  ‘a  young  son  of  Damrosch  called  on  me  this  morn¬ 
ing,  I  thought  of  course  he  would  stay  here  and  study 
with  me,  but  instead  of  that  he  told  me  he  was  only 
going  to  stay  two  days.  The  young  generation  have 
forgotten  me  completely.  They  think  nothing  of  me 
and  they  have  no  respect  for  us  older  men  of  bygone 
days.  Am  I  a  hotel  in  which  one  takes  a  room  for  a 
night,  then  to  pass  on  elsewhere ?’” 

Needless  to  say,  I  was  overcome  at  such  a  dreadful 
development  of  a  perfectly  innocent  remark  of  mine.  I 
could  not  conceive  it  possible  that  so  small  a  person  as 
myself  should  have  unwittingly  brought  about  so  tragic 
a  result,  and  I  implored  Lassen  to  tell  me  how  I  could 
efface  it.  Lassen,  seeing  my  unhappy  state,  advised  me 
to  go  the  next  morning  at  eight  o’clock  to  see  Liszt  again 
and  to  explain  everything  to  him.  I  sat  through  the  rest 
of  the  play  but  actually  did  not  hear  a  word  of  it  or  a 
note  of  Lassen’s  music;  I  was  too  occupied  with  my 
own  misery.  I  did  not  sleep  all  night,  but  tossed  about 
restlessly  and  at  six  arose  and  wandered  about  dismally 
until  seven  when  a  frowsy  waiter  in  the  dining-room  of 
my  hotel,  the  “Russische  Erb  Prinz”  gave  me  a  cup  of 
coffee. 

Punctually  at  eight  o’clock  I  knocked  at  Liszt’s  door  and 
as  I  entered  I  saw  this  wonderful-looking  old  man  with 
his  splendid  white  hair  and  deep-set  eyes,  already  at  his 
work-table.  As  he  saw  me  his  eyebrows  arched  and  said: 

“What,  still  in  Weimar?” 

I  came  forward  and  tried  to  speak,  suddenly  burst  into 
tears  and  then  managed  to  stammer  out  my  great  admi¬ 
ration  for  him,  how  my  father  had  always  held  him  up  as 
the  ideal  musician  of  our  times,  and  how  he  must  have 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


39 


misunderstood  my  words  of  yesterday  if  he  thought  that  I 
intended  any  lack  of  respect  or  reverence  for  such  a 
man  as  he.  As  I  reread  this  it  seems  quite  articulate, 
but  as  I  told  it  to  Liszt  it  must  have  sounded  very  ridicu¬ 
lous,  but  nevertheless  I  suddenly  felt  his  arms  about  me 
and  a  very  gentle  furtive  kiss  placed  upon  my  forehead. 
He  led  me  to  a  chair,  sat  down  by  me  and  began  again  to 
talk  and  reminisce  about  my  father  and  mother.  He 
then  invited  me  to  come  that  afternoon  to  his  piano  class 
and  I  left  very  much  relieved  at  the  outcome  of  my  visit. 

I  then  called  on  another  old  friend  of  my  parents  and 
also  of  Liszt’s,  Fraulein  von  Scharn.  I  found  at  her 
house  a  friend  of  hers,  Baron  von  Joukowski,  a  Russian 
painter  of  distinction  and  a  highly  interesting  man,  who 
had  become  very  friendly  with  the  Wagner  family  and  who 
had  designed  the  Hall  of  the  Holy  Grail  for  the  Parsifal” 
production  at  Bayreuth.  When  I  told  them  of  my  experi¬ 
ence  with  Liszt  they  explained  to  me  that  Liszt  had 
grown  very  old,  that  he  felt  the  modern  musical  world 
was  forgetting  him  and  that  in  choosing  a  sacred  text  like 
“Parsifal,”  Wagner  had  been,  so  to  speak,  encroaching 
somewhat  on  his  domain.  Perhaps  even  a  latent  jealousy 
of  Wagner’s  all-usurping  powers  was  slightly  clouding  a 
friendship  and  self-sacrifice  which  Liszt  had  so  abun¬ 
dantly  given  to  Wagner  all  his  lifetime.  They  also  told 
me  that  Liszt  was  now  surrounded  by  a  band  of  cormo¬ 
rants  in  the  shape  of  ostensible  piano  students,  many  of 
whom  had  no  real  talent  or  ambition,  but  who  virtually 
lived  on  the  master’s  incredible  kindness,  abusing  it  in 
every  way  and  altogether  making  the  Weimar  of  that  day 
a  travesty  on  former  times. 

Biilow  confirmed  this  to  me  several  years  later  and  told 
me  how  he  had  once  “cleaned  out”  Liszt’s  rooms  and 


40 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


bade  this  unsavory  crowd  never  to  return.  Liszt  had 
thanked  him,  but  next  morning  they  were  all  back  again. 

I  attended  the  audition  in  Liszt’s  rooms  that  after¬ 
noon  and  found  that  there  was  indeed  a  pitiful  crowd  of 
sycophants  and  incompetents  assembled,  but  there  were 
a  few  exceptions,  notably  young  Eugene  d’AIbert  who 
was  then  perhaps  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age  and  who 
played  wonderfully  and  to  Liszt’s  great  satisfaction. 
There  were  a  few  others  who,  however,  did  not  play  on 
that  afternoon.  But  another  one  who  shall  be  nameless, 
sat  down  to  play  the  Beethoven  sonata  in  E  flat  and 
botched  the  introduction  so  horribly  that  Liszt  gently 
pushed  her  off  the  chair  and  sat  down  himself  saying, 
“This  is  the  way  it  should  be  played,”  and  then  the 
music  seemed  to  just  drop  from  his  fingers  onto  the  piano 
keys,  and  such  a  heavenly  succession  of  sounds  ravished 
my  ear  that  I  did  not  think  it  possible  human  hands  could 
evoke  it.  He  then  said  to  her:  “Now,  try  it  again.” 
And  she  did,  and,  if  anything,  played  even  worse  than 
before.  Again  Liszt  played  the  opening  phrases,  and 
then,  somewhat  irritated,  he  said: 

“So,  blamieren  Sie  sich  noch  einmal.”  (Now,  make  a 
fool  of  yourself  again.)  By  that  time  to  our  relief  she  felt 
that  both  she  and  we  had  had  enough. 

After  this  I  met  Liszt  several  times  and  he  always 
treated  me  with  uniform  cordiality,  but  every  once  in  a 
while  the  memory  of  our  first  meeting  would  come  to 
him  and  he  would  make  some  gently  malicious  remark, 
such  as  “Oh,  here  comes  our  young  American;  like  light¬ 
ning  he  flashes  through  the  world!” 

From  Weimar  I  went  to  Ems  and  dutifully  took  the 
“cure”  for  five  weeks,  drinking  the  three  glasses  of  the 
more  or  less  miraculous  waters  while  the  band  played 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


41 


before  breakfast,  and  watching  little  girls  dressed  in  white 
smilingly  presenting  bouquets  of  bachelor’s-buttons,  pop¬ 
ularly  supposed  to  be  his  favorite  flower,  to  old  Emperor 
William,  who,  accompanied  by  an  adjutant  or  two,  used 
to  take  the  cure  at  Ems  every  summer. 

To  strangers  like  myself  the  place  on  the  promenade 
at  which  the  French  Ambassador,  Benedetti,  had  “in¬ 
sulted”  the  King  of  Prussia  in  1870  was  always  pointed 
out,  but  this  was  many  years  before  Bismarck’s  famous 
and  cynical  confession  that  it  had  all  been  a  put-up  job 
by  him  in  so  altering  the  famous  telegram  relating  to 
the  King’s  meeting  with  Benedetti  that,  according  to 
Bismarck’s  memoirs:  “It  will  be  known  in  Paris  before 
midnight,  and  not  only  on  account  of  its  contents  but 
also  on  account  of  the  manner  of  its  distribution,  will  have 
the  effect  of  a  red  rag  upon  the  Gallic  Bull.” 

Two  summers  ago,  after  an  absence  of  thirty-eight 
years,  I  revisited  Ems  with  my  wife  and  daughters.  We 
had  motored  from  Paris  to  Coblenz  on  a  visit  to  General 
Allen,  then  in  command  of  our  Army  of  Occupation  in 
Coblenz,  and  from  there  to  Ems  was  but  a  short  motor 
ride.  We  found  the  town  occupied  by  French  troops  from 
Morocco,  and  our  officer  guides  pointed  out  with  some 
amusement  the  stone  which  marks  the  place  where  Bene¬ 
detti  and  King  William  had  met  in  1870. 

In  July  I  went  to  Bayreuth  in  high  expectation,  to 
hear  the  first  four  performances  of  Wagner’s  “Parsifal.” 
To  a  young  musician  from  America  such  an  experience 
was  especially  new  and  exciting.  I  arrived  there  a  week 
or  two  before  the  first  performance,  hoping  to  gain  admis¬ 
sion  to  some  of  the  rehearsals.  I  found  this  impossible, 
but  I  met  scores  of  artists  by  whom  I  was  cordially  re¬ 
ceived  because  I  was  my  father’s  son.  Many  of  his  old 


42 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


friends  were  there  for  the  “Parsifal”  performances  and 
I  remember  with  much  pleasure  the  kindly,  refined  and 
gentle  Herman  Levi,  General  Music  Director  of  the 
Munich  Opera,  who  had  been  chosen  by  Wagner  to  con¬ 
duct  the  Bayreuth  performances. 

I  received  an  invitation  for  the  first  reception  held  by 
Wagner  and  his  wife,  Cosima,  at  Wahnfried  and  dutifully 
presented  myself  there  with  some  nervousness,  which 
was  allayed  somewhat  when  I  found  Liszt  almost  at  the 
door  as  I  came  in.  He  immediately  recognized  me  and 
not  only  introduced  me  to  Cosima,  but  when  she  said, 
“Father,  you  must  introduce  this  son  of  our  old  friend, 
Doctor  Leopold  Damrosch,  to  the  Meister,”  he  took  me 
into  Wagner’s  workroom  where  I  beheld  Wagner  sur¬ 
rounded  by  musicians  and  in  front  of  him  the  giant  tenor, 
Albert  Niemann,  well  known  later  on  to  Wagner  lovers  in 
America  as  a  member  of  the  German  company  at  the 
Metropolitan  for  a  number  of  years,  and  also  as  the  creator 
of  Tannhauser  in  Paris  at  the  tragic  and  disastrous  per¬ 
formances  of  1849. 

As  we  came  in,  Wagner  was  joking  Niemann  unmerci¬ 
fully,  saying: 

“Look  at  this  man!  I  invited  him  to  create  the  part 
of  Parsifal  for  me  and  he  refused  because  I  told  him  that 
Parsifal  must  be  a  beardless  youth  and  he  said  he  would 
not  cut  off  his  beard  for  any  man.” 

“Why,  Meister,”  answered  Niemann,  “you  know  that 
is  not  true;  I  would  cut  off  my  nose  if  it  were  necessary 
to  sing  one  of  your  roles  properly.” 

Wagner  greeted  me  with  kindness,  asked  about  my 
father,  and  a  few  days  later  sent  me,  through  his  pub¬ 
lishers,  for  my  father,  a  manuscript  copy  of  the  finale 
from  the  first  act  of  “Parsifal”  (no  orchestral  score  was 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


43 


at  that  time  engraved)  for  performance  in  New  York  by 
the  Symphony  and  Oratorio  Societies.  This  was  a  re¬ 
markable  act  of  friendship  on  his  part  and  I  was  very 
proud  to  be  able  to  carry  the  precious  score  back  to  my 
father. 

It  was  to  me  indescribably  touching  to  note  the  way 
in  which  Liszt  sought  to  efface  himself  at  Wagner’s 
house,  in  order  that  Wagner’s  glory  should  stand  forth 
alone.  When  I  first  saw  Liszt  there  I,  following  the  cus¬ 
tom  of  the  young  musicians  at  Weimar  and  elsewhere, 
sought  his  hand  in  order  to  kiss  it;  but,  with  a  force  in¬ 
credible  in  so  old  a  man,  he  pressed  down  my  hand,  saying 
with  his  gentle  smile:  “No,  no,  not  here.” 

I  doubt  whether  there  ever  was  a  musician  who  worked 
so  incessantly  for  the  benefit  of  other  musicians  as  he. 
He  was  constantly  seeking,  either  with  his  ten  magic 
fingers  as  pianist  or  with  his  pen  as  musical  critic  or  propa¬ 
gandist,  or  with  his  own  money,  to  save  others  from  want 
or  to  help  them  to  obtain  the  recognition  which  he  thought 
they  deserved.  It  is  impossible  to  name  the  hundreds 
whom  he  thus  benefited — Berlioz,  Saint-Saens,  Cesar 
Franck,  Schumann,  Cornelius,  and  so  on,  and  of  course 
above  all  Wagner  himself,  whose  friendship  with  Liszt 
has  become  historic.  Like  most  friendships,  the  one  gives 
much  more  than  he  receives,  and  that  one  was  Liszt,  who, 
in  his  admiration  for  Wagner’s  genius  minimized  himself 
and  what  he  had  accomplished  as  composer  to  an  exag¬ 
gerated  degree.  In  those  personal  qualities  that  make  up 
a  man’s  character,  Liszt  was  infinitely  the  superior. 
Wagner’s  genius  as  a  musician  was  the  greater,  but  this 
brought  in  its  trail  an  overwhelming  egotism  and  a  vanity 
which  made  many  of  his  relations  with  his  fellow  men 
unfortunate.  Liszt  gave  up  all  worldly  glories  and  hon- 


44 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


ors  and  riches  which  he  might  have  acquired  if  he  had 
continued  his  career  as  perhaps  the  greatest  piano  vir¬ 
tuoso  that  ever  lived,  in  order  to  devote  himself  abso¬ 
lutely  to  composition  and  musical  propaganda,  without 
any  thought  of  pecuniary  rewards.  He  literally,  like  his 
patron  saint,  Francis  of  Assisi,  took  the  vows  of  poverty. 
When  I  saw  him  he  lived  in  most  simple  fashion,  always 
travelled  “second  class”  and  gave  what  little  money  he 
had  to  others  who  seemed  to  him  to  need  it  more.  With¬ 
out  his  never-ceasing  support  and  encouragement,  his 
absolute  faith  in  the  eventual  triumph  of  Wagner’s  music, 
and  without  continual  financial  support  from  Liszt  and 
from  those  he  constantly  urged  to  help,  Wagner  could 
never  have  carried  on  his  struggle  toward  the  triumphant 
completion  of  a  Bayreuth  and  an  almost  complete  realiza¬ 
tion  of  his  ideals. 

The  first  performance  of  “Parsifal”  made  a  tremendous 
impression  on  me.  I  was  much  moved  by  the  noble 
allegory  and  the  music  accompanying  the  sacred  rituals 
of  the  Christian  Church  as  presented  upon  the  stage  in 
the  scene  during  the  uncovering  of  the  Holy  Grail.  But 
I  must  confess  that  with  each  succeeding  performance 
this  feeling  lessened.  The  fact  that  it  was  not  a  devo¬ 
tional  ceremony  but  an  imitation  of  one  which  had  been 
carefully  drilled  and  trained  into  the  performers  whose 
gestures  of  devotion  repeated  themselves  each  time  with 
automatic  regularity,  gradually  began  to  affect  me  disa¬ 
greeably.  I  was  at  that  time  too  young  to  analyze 
this  feeling  properly,  but,  as  the  years  went  by,  I  gradually 
arrived  at  the  belief  that  such  ceremonials  should  not  be 
presented  on  a  stage,  for  if  we  see  a  group  of  Christian 
Knights  partaking  of  the  Lord’s  Supper,  we  should  have 
the  full  conviction  that  it  is  a  real  ceremony  and  not  an 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


45 


imitation.  The  foot-washing  scene  between  Parsifal  and 
Kundry  also  affected  me  disagreeably.  It  was  too  direct 
an  imitation  of  Magdalen  washing  the  feet  of  Christ. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  Good  Friday  scene  between 
Persifal  and  Gurnemanz  moved  me  and  many  others  in 
the  audience  to  tears  because  it  was  a  lovely  and  lovable 
presentation  of  the  divine  mercy  through  the  self-sacrifice 
of  the  Saviour.  Old  Scaria,  the  Vienna  bass,  who  took 
the  part  of  Gurnemanz ,  sang  and  acted  this  scene  with 
convincing  tenderness. 

I  was  naturally  much  interested  in  the  invisible,  sub¬ 
terranean  orchestra  of  the  Bayreuth  auditorium,  and  as 
the  first  noble  theme  of  the  prelude  literally  floated  into 
the  darkened  hall,  the  great  advantage  of  an  invisible 
conductor  was  manifest.  The  division  of  the  music  into 
bars,  which  are  an  essential  of  the  conductor’s  beat,  should 
be  seen  only  by  the  orchestra,  and  I  still  wish  it  were  pos¬ 
sible  to  educate  the  public  to  listen  to  music  with  their 
ears  only  and  not  with  their  eyes.  But  this  theory  of 
mine  would  find  violent  opposition  from  the  small  but 
select  company  of  “prima  donna  conductors”  who,  at 
that  parting  of  the  ways  which  comes  to  every  conductor, 
whether  he  shall  make  himself  an  interpreter  of  the  com¬ 
posers’  works  or  a  perverter  in  order  to  demonstrate  his 
own  “ tricks  of  the  trade,”  have  chosen  the  primrose 
path  because  a  large  part  of  the  public  are  easily  gulled 
and  more  easily  moved  if  the  conductor  “dramatizes” 
the  music  through  his  gestures.  By  the  skilful  manipu¬ 
lation  of  his  arms  and  hands,  his  hips  and  his  hair,  he 
gives  the  impression  that  when  the  ’cellos  play  a  soulful 
melody,  it  really  drips  from  his  wrists,  and  when  the 
kettledrums  play  a  dramatic  roll  it  is  really  the  result 
of  a  flash  of  his  eye.  There  are  many  people,  especially 


46 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


among  the  gentle  sex,  to  whom  admiration  for  one  con¬ 
ductor  entails  a  deep  hatred  of  all  others.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  note  how  many  of  them  could  pick  out  their 
favorite  if  half  a  dozen  of  the  prima  donnas  of  the  baton 
were  to  perform  invisibly  with  an  invisible  orchestra  in 
quick  succession  to  each  other. 

The  strings  of  the  Bayreuth  orchestra  were  noble  and 
rich  in  tone,  but  I  was  disturbed  by  many  inaccuracies 
and  false  intonations  of  the  wind  choir,  which  surprised 
me  all  the  more  as  the  orchestra  was  supposed  to  be 
composed  of  the  best  of  every  kind  from  the  different 
opera-houses  of  Germany.  These  faults  were  not  no¬ 
ticed  or  acknowledged  by  my  German  friends,  and  I 
think  that  the  years  have  brought  more  and  more  of  a 
cleavage  in  this  respect  between  their  orchestras  and  ours, 
and  that  to-day  American  orchestras  obtain,  especially 
in  the  wind-instrument  choirs,  greater  purity  of  tone  and, 
without  sacrificing  elasticity,  a  greater  precision  of  en¬ 
semble. 

I  have  always  had  a  penchant  for  French  wood-wind 
players  and  have  given  them  and  their  Belgian  cousins  a 
preference  in  my  orchestra.  Generally  speaking,  a  con¬ 
ductor  can  safely  engage  a  first  prize  from  the  Paris 
Conservatoire  in  flute,  oboe,  or  bassoon  without  giving 
him  any  further  examination. 

Where  else  can  one  find  a  flute  of  such  ravishing  tone 
quality  as  that  of  George  Barrere,  who  has  been  first 
flute  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra  for  seven¬ 
teen  years  and  who  was  first  recommended  to  me  by  his 
great  teacher,  Tafanel,  in  Paris?  I  am  happy  to  say  that 
he  is  developing  many  American  players  and  giving  to 
them  something  of  his  own  luscious  and  spiritual  tone 
quality,  so  that  he,  as  well  as  Mathieu,  our  first  oboe,  and 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


47 


Lettelier,  bassoon,  are  continuing  the  great  traditions  of 
the  Paris  Conservatoire  in  this  country  and  imparting 
their  qualities  to  a  group  of  young  American  pupils. 
Germany  has  produced  some  great  clarinet  players,  of 
whom  Baermann,  for  whom  Brahms  wrote  his  beautiful 
“ Quintet  for  Clarinet  and  Strings/’  was  a  fine  example. 
Mr.  Lindemann,  first  clarinet  of  my  orchestra,  is  another, 
and  his  tone  is  of  a  peculiarly  pure  quality.  I  prefer  the 
tone  of  the  German  trombonists  to  that  of  their  French 
colleagues.  The  Germans  cultivate  a  darker  and  more 
noble  tone  quality. 

The  summer  of  1886  I  returned  again  to  Germany.  I 
had  been  invited  to  conduct  some  selections  from  “Sula- 
mith,”  a  cantata  of  my  father’s,  at  the  annual  meeting  of 
the  “Ton-kiinstler  Verein”  which  took  place  at  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Thuringian  hill  town  of  Sondershausen,  the  residence 
of  the  princely  house  of  Schwartzburg-Sondershausen, 
where  the  prince  maintained  a  good  permanent  symphony 
orchestra. 

Liszt,  as  venerable  founder  and  president  of  the  Ton- 
kiinstler  Verein,  an  association  of  musicians  the  original 
purpose  of  which  was  the  production  and  cultivation  of 
the  modern  school  of  composition,  again  received  me 
very  kindly  and  expressed  himself  as  much  pleased  at 
hearing  my  father’s  work. 

At  the  close  of  the  Festival  I  accompanied  him,  to¬ 
gether  with  Baron  Joukowski  and  Fraulein  von  Scharn, 
back  to  Weimar.  During  the  trip  Liszt  was  in  a  very  gay 
mood  and  kept  us  in  gales  of  laughter  with  a  number  of 
outrageous  puns  and  amusing  comments  on  certain  phases 
of  the  Festival,  especially  on  a  long  debate  between  Doc¬ 
tor  Rieman,  an  eminent  musical  theorist,  and  another 
man  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  on  certain  theories 


48 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


regarding  the  science  of  harmony.  This  debate,  which  was 
wholly  technical  and  very  “griindlich”  lasted  for  two 
hours,  during  which  poor  Liszt  had  to  sit  in  the  front  row 
in  a  room  crowded  to  suffocation  and  with  not  a  door  or 
window  open.  I  can  still  see  the  venerable  head  of  Liszt 
drooping  and  dropping  every  now  and  then  from  sheer 
fatigue,  and  then  the  Meister  raising  it  again  with  that 
ineffable  smile  on  his  face  in  order  to  show  an  interest  in 
the  discussion. 

When  we  arrived  in  Weimar,  Joukowski  invited  us  all, 
together  with  Lassen,  to  dinner  at  the  Hotel  “Zum  Russi- 
schen  Erb  Prinz.”  It  was  a  jolly  affair.  Champagne  was 
served  immediately  after  the  soup  and  Liszt  reminisced 
so  brilliantly  and  beautifully  of  the  old  Weimar  days  of 
which  Fraulein  von  Scharn  and  Lassen  had  been  a  part 
and  with  which  I,  too,  could  claim  some  connection 
through  my  parents,  that  we  all  sat  spellbound. 

During  the  dinner  Liszt  asked  me  if  I  knew  anything 
of  a  portrait  of  his  which  had  been  painted  under  inter¬ 
esting  conditions  many  years  before.  Liszt  occupied 
rooms  at  the  old  Villa  d’Este  at  Tivoli,  near  Rome,  for  a 
month  or  two  every  winter.  It  then  belonged  to  his  old 
friend,  Cardinal  Prince  Hohenlohe.  One  evening  his  bell 
rang,  and  as  his  servant  had  gone  out,  Liszt  took  a  candle 
and  opened  the  door.  His  visitors  were  Henry  Wads¬ 
worth  Longfellow,  the  American  poet,  who  had  brought  a 
painter  friend,  Mr.  Healy,  to  introduce  to  the  maestro. 
Longfellow  was  so  struck  with  the  picturesque  appear¬ 
ance  of  Liszt  as  he  stood  in  the  old  doorway  in  his  long 
black  soutane,  holding  a  lighted  candle,  that  he  asked 
Liszt  for  permission  to  have  Healy  paint  a  picture  of  him, 
and  he  consequently  gave  Healy  several  sittings.  Long¬ 
fellow  took  the  painting  back  with  him  to  America. 


PORTRAIT  OF  FRANZ  LISZT 

Painted  for  Longfellow  by  George  Healey,  now  in  the  Longfellow  house 

in  Cambridge. 


, 


LISZT  AND  WAGNER 


49 


I  had  never  heard  of  or  seen  this  picture,  but  thirty 
years  later,  when  Ernest  Longfellow,  a  nephew  of  the 
poet,  was  lunching  at  our  house  I  remembered  the  inci¬ 
dent  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  anything  of  the  where¬ 
abouts  of  the  picture.  He  told  me  that  he  remembered  it 
very  well  and  that  it  was  still  hanging  in  his  uncle’s 
house  in  Cambridge.  Through  the  courtesy  of  the  pres¬ 
ent  occupants  I  was  permitted  to  take  a  photograph  of 
it  and  it  is  reproduced  in  this  book. 

It  was  not  until  midnight  that  we  accompanied  Liszt 
through  the  park  and  the  lovely  Goethe  Garden  back  to 
his  house.  It  was  a  gentle  summer  night  with  a  hazy 
moon  giving  an  indescribable  glamour  to  the  trees  and 
bushes,  and  suddenly  Liszt  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  said  “Listen!” 

From  the  bushes  came  the  song  of  a  nightingale.  I  had 
never  heard  one  before  and  stood  spellbound.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  such  ecstatic  sweetness,  such  songs  of  joy 
and  sorrow,  could  come  from  the  throat  of  a  little  bird,  and 
to  hear  it  all  at  twenty-four  years  of  age  and  standing 
at  the  side  of  Liszt !  Dear  reader,  I  confess  that  to-day, 
thirty -five  years  later,  I  still  thrill  at  the  memory  of  it. 

Alas !  That  was  almost  the  last  time  that  I  saw  Liszt. 
In  July  I  went  again  to  Bayreuth  to  hear  the  first  “Tris¬ 
tan”  performance,  and  one  morning  I  met  him,  looking 
very  old  and  worn,  coming  all  alone  out  of  the  church 
from  early  mass.  A  few  days  later,  July  31,  he  had  fol¬ 
lowed  his  dearest  friend,  Wagner,  into  the  beyond. 

The  following  winter,  in  Liszt’s  memory  (March  3, 
1887),  I  gave  the  first  complete  performance  in  America 
of  his  oratorio,  “Christus.”  This  work  made  so  pro¬ 
found  an  impression  that  I  repeated  it  the  following  year. 

I  am  sorry  that  “Christus”  has  not  been  performed 


50 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


since  then  by  our  choral  societies,  as  I  consider  it  to  be 
Liszt’s  greatest  work.  Many  of  its  themes  are  based  on 
the  Gregorian  modes.  The  choruses  are  set  in  sonorous 
harmonies  and  breathe  a  tranquillity  which  can  only  be 
achieved  by  a  perfect  mastery  of  the  subject  and  the  form 
in  which  it  is  treated.  There  are  two  orchestral  numbers 
— a  Pastorale,  indicative  of  the  shepherds  and  the  annun¬ 
ciation,  “Angelus  Domini  ad  Pastores  ait,”  and  the 
March  of  the  Three  Kings,  “Et  ecce  Stella  quam  Vide- 
rant” — which  are  brilliantly  orchestrated.  The  march 
depicts  the  three  kings  of  the  Orient  with  their  mighty 
retinue,  the  star  guiding  them  to  the  manger  in  Beth¬ 
lehem  being  indicated  by  a  sustained  high  A  flat  in  the 
first  violins  in  an  organ  point  around  which  the  proces¬ 
sional  continues.  The  trio,  or  middle  part,  in  a  beautiful 
unison  of  the  violins  and  violoncellos,  depicts  the  kings 
opening  their  treasures  and  presenting  gold,  frankincense, 
and  myrrh  to  the  little  Jesu. 

The  entrance  of  Christ  into  Jerusalem  is  characterized 
by  an  atmosphere  of  exalted,  joyous  acclaim,  and  the 
setting  for  baritone  of  the  prayer  of  Jesus, 

O  my  Father,  if  this  cup  may  not  pass  away 
from  me,  except  I  drink  it,  Thy  will  be  done, 

is  one  of  the  most  moving  that  I  know  of  in  the  history  of 
religious  music. 

In  the  last  part  there  is  an  exquisite  but  simple  setting 
of  an  ancient  Eastern  hymn,  “O  Filii  et  Filiae.”  Alto¬ 
gether  I  cannot  understand  why,  in  the  dearth  of  religious 
music  written  by  modern  pens,  “Christus”  does  not  take 
its  permanent  place  in  the  repertoire  of  choral  societies. 

Like  many  other  works  of  the  greatest  masters,  a  few 
good  cuts  will  add  to  the  effectiveness  of  this  oratorio. 


VI 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  AT  THE 
METROPOLITAN— DEATH  OF  MY  FATHER 

The  Metropolitan  Opera  House  was  built  in  1882  by 
a  group  of  rich  New  Yorkers  who,  feeling  themselves  shut 
out  by  the  older  aristocracy  who  owned  the  old  Academy 
of  Music  and  occupied  all  the  boxes  at  the  Italian  Opera 
seasons  of  Colonel  Mapleson,  determined  to  have  an  opera 
of  their  own.  They  leased  their  new  house  for  the  inaug¬ 
ural  season  of  1883-84  to  Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau,  a 
firm  of  theatrical  speculators  and  managers  who  had  made 
a  name  for  themselves  by  the  tours  of  Mary  Anderson 
and  other  celebrated  “stars”  of  Europe  and  America. 

The  Metropolitan  Opera  stockholders  had  appointed  as 
architect  a  man  whose  reputation  had  been  made  in 
building  churches,  but  who  knew  nothing  of  theatrical  or 
operatic  requirements,  or  of  the  latest  developments  in 
Europe  in  the  construction  of  the  stage  and  modern  stage 
appliances.  As  a  result,  the  stage  arrangements  were  of 
the  most  clumsy  description.  Great  walls,  many  feet 
thick,  ran  beneath  the  stage  from  the  front  to  the  rear, 
thereby  precluding  the  possibility  of  a  “transformation” 
scene  in  which  one  set  of  scenery  could  sink  into  the  ground 
while  the  other  descended  from  above.  The  parquet 
floor  was  placed  so  low  that  the  orchestra  pit,  which  was 
supposed  to  be  an  imitation  (but  was  not)  of  the  sunken 
orchestra  at  Bayreuth,  had  to  be  placed  still  lower  and 
in  consequence  the  conductor  was  perched  on  a  kind  of 
pulpit  high  in  the  air  so  that  the  singers  could  see  him. 

5 1 


52 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


He  had  to  gesticulate  wildly  upward  toward  the  singers 
and  downward  toward  the  abyss  in  which  the  orchestra 
fiddled  without  being  able  properly  to  see  his  gestures. 
Besides  this,  the  orchestra,  being  so  far  from  the  stage, 
was  almost  inaudible  to  the  singers,  and  this  often  re¬ 
sulted  in  the  most  disastrous  dropping  of  the  pitch,  es¬ 
pecially  in  the  concerted  numbers.  Years  later  and  at 
huge  expense  some  of  these  faults  of  construction  were 
corrected. 

For  their  season  Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau  engaged  a 
large  number  of  operatic  stars,  including  Nilsson,  Patti, 
Sembrich,  Trebelli,  and  many  others  of  distinction,  but 
there  was  absolutely  no  artistic  head  of  the  enterprise  nor 
any  one  who  had  had  any  real  managerial  experience  with 
grand  opera,  and  in  consequence  all  these  stars  stepped 
on  each  other’s  feet  and  trains  and  the  confusion  was  in¬ 
credible.  Good  performances  were  an  accident,  as  the 
principal  artists  usually  deemed  it  beneath  their  dignity 
to  attend  rehearsals,  and  the  season  ended  in  failure 
and  the  bankruptcy  of  Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau. 
Colonel  Mapleson,  the  astute  manager  of  the  Academy 
of  Music,  rubbed  his  hands  with  glee  at  this  downfall  of 
what  he  called  “the  new  yellow  brewery  on  Broadway.” 
The  directors  of  the  Metropolitan  were  at  a  loss  what  to  do 
with  their  elephant.  Their  president  was  James  Roose¬ 
velt,  an  uncle  of  Hilborn  Roosevelt  who  was  then  presi¬ 
dent  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Society  and  who  was  a 
stanch  and  devoted  friend  of  my  father’s.  He  suggested 
to  his  uncle  that  my  father  be  appointed  as  director  and 
that  a  season  of  opera  in  German  be  inaugurated,  as 
Italian  opera  was  evidently  on  the  wane  and  Wagner, 
especially,  on  the  ascendant. 

The  directors  thought  well  of  this  scheme  and  accord- 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  53 


ingly  made  an  arrangement  with  my  father  under  which 
he  should  become  director  of  the  opera  for  the  season 
1884-85  and  that  he  should  engage  a  company  of  German 
singers  of  which,  however,  Madame  Materna  must  be 
one,  as  she  had  sung  with  great  success  at  the  Theodore 
Thomas  Festival  of  the  preceding  year  and  they  wanted 
some  name  already  known  in  America  to  head  the  list 
of  singers. 

This  meant  a  complete  revolution  in  operatic  affairs, 
as  until  then  Italian  opera  had  been  the  only  fashionable 
form  of  musical  entertainment.  Opera  in  German  was 
rather  looked  down  upon  and  Wagner’s  genius  was  as 
yet  too  imperfectly  known  or  recognized  to  exercise  much 
influence  on  the  opera-going  folks  of  that  time. 

My  father  was  to  receive  a  salary  of  ten  thousand  dol¬ 
lars,  for  which  he  was  to  act  as  manager  and  also  as  musi¬ 
cal  conductor  of  the  season.  The  salary  was  certainly 
not  large,  even  for  those  days,  but  my  father  was  glad  to 
get  it  and  at  the  same  time  to  carry  out  the  dream  of  his 
life,  the  introduction  of  the  Wagner  music-dramas  to 
America,  and  to  sweep  away  forever  the  artificial  and 
shallow  operas  of  the  old  Italian  school  with  which  Maple- 
son,  Max  Strakosh,  and  others  had  until  then  principally 
fed  our  public. 

He  sailed  for  Europe  in  May  and  returned  in  August 
with  all  his  contracts  made,  including  Madame  Materna, 
to  whom  he  had  to  pay  a  thousand  dollars  a  night,  as 
she  had  gotten  wind  of  the  dictum  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  directors  that  under  all  circumstances  she 
must  be  one  of  the  company. 

Among  the  singers  were  Marianne  Brandt,  one  of  the 
greatest  dramatic  mezzo-sopranos  and  contraltos  of  our 
times,  and  Anton  Schott,  a  typical  German  “heroic 


54 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


tenor,”  with  whom  Biilow  had  had  his  famous  alterca¬ 
tion  at  Hanover  a  few  years  before  at  a  “ Lohengrin” 
performance.  Schott  had  sung  Lohengrin  s  “  Farewell  to 
the  Swan”  out  of  tune  and  this  had  so  irritated  Biilow, 
who  was  conducting,  that  he  turned  on  the  unfortunate 
tenor  and  said  to  him:  “  You  are  not  a  Knight  of  the  Swan, 
but  a  Knight  of  the  Swine.”  Schott,  as  an  ex-officer  in 
a  Hanoverian  regiment,  deemed  his  honor  as  an  officer 
insulted,  demanded  an  apology  or  a  duel,  and  as  the  irate 
von  Biilow  would  grant  him  neither  the  one  nor  the  other, 
Biilow  had  to  resign  his  post  as  director  of  the  Royal 
Opera,  while  Schott  remained  triumphant  in  his  position. 

For  the  youthful  lyric  soprano  roles  my  father  had  en¬ 
gaged  Madame  Seidl-Kraus,  the  wife  of  Anton  SeidI  and 
possessor  of  a  voice  of  great  purity  and  simple  appeal. 
The  coloratura  roles  were  sung  by  Madame  Schroeaer- 
Hanfstangel,  a  truly  great  artist,  with  the  real  bel  canto 
of  the  Italian  school,  whom  Gounod  had  admired  so 
greatly  that  he  invited  her  to  Paris  to  sing  Marguerite  in 
“Faust”  at  the  Grand  Opera. 

The  other  singers  possessed  both  the  virtues  and  the 
failings  of  the  German  Opera  School  of  that  time.  They 
were  very  amenable  to  ensemble  work,  carrying  out  the 
dramatic  side  of  their  roles  with  real  ability,  forming  an 
excellent  ensemble,  and  tireless  in  rehearsing,  but  their 
singing  was  sometimes  faulty  and  not  equal  to  the 
naturally  beautiful  tone  emission  of  the  best  Italian 
singers. 

The  stage  manager,  Wilhelm  Hock,  was  one  of  the 
best  in  Germany  and  his  management  of  the  movements 
of  great  crowds  on  the  stage,  as  for  instance  in  “Lohen¬ 
grin”  on  the  arrival  of  Lohengrin  and  the  Swan ,  the  build¬ 
ing  of  the  barricades  in  “Massaniello,”  the  Coronation 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  55 


Scene  in  Meyerbeer’s  “Le  Prophete,”  was  a  revelation  to 
our  public.  The  orchestra  was,  of  course,  that  of  the 
New  York  Symphony  Society,  and  my  father  infused  the 
entire  ensemble  with  such  an  ideal  of  perfection  that 
during  many  of  the  performances,  especially  in  “Lohen¬ 
grin, ”  “Le  Prophete,”  “Fidelio,”  and  “Walkiire,”  the 
public  seethed  with  excitement  and  enthusiasm.  There 
had  been  an  “improvised”  performance  of  “Walkiire” 
at  the  Academy  of  Music  under  the  German  conductor 
Neuendorf  a  few  years  before.  The  Brunhilde  had  been 
sung  by  Madame  Pappenheim,  possessor  of  a  glorious 
voice,  but  the  rest  of  the  cast  had  been  wofully  deficient. 
Insufficient  rehearsals  and  ignorance  of  the  music  of 
Wagner  on  the  part  of  the  conductor  had  also  prevented 
this  performance  from  making  any  impression  or  giving 
any  real  idea  of  the  beauties  of  the  work. 

The  performance  under  my  father  included  Madame 
Materna  as  Brunhilde ,  who  had  created  the  role  in  Bay¬ 
reuth  in  ’76  and  who  was  then  at  the  very  height  of  her 
glorious  vocal  powers;  Madame  Seidl-Kraus,  an  exquisite 
and  pathetic  Sieglinde;  Anton  Schott,  a  vigorous  and 
highly  dramatic  Siegmund ;  and  StaudigI  as  Wotan. 
StaudigI  was  a  son  of  the  famous  old  Viennese  bass  with 
whom  he  had  studied,  singing  with  such  good  results  that 
he  made  as  fine  an  impression  in  concert  and  oratorio  as 
in  opera.  The  first  barytone  was  Adolf  Robinson,  who 
had  begun  his  career  with  my  father  in  Breslau  and  whose 
warm  impassioned  bel  canto  won  instant  recognition  here. 

There  was  no  professional  opera  claque  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  in  those  days  such  as  is  now  maintained  by  some 
of  the  singers  and  conductors  who,  in  rivalry  with  each 
other,  foolishly  spend  their  money  in  the  hiring  of  twenty 
to  fifty  husky  men,  under  a  well-trained  leader,  who  stand 


56 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


at  the  side  of  the  balconies  and  family  circle  and  clap 
with  the  machine-like  regularity  of  a  steel  hammer  in  an 
iron  foundry  in  order  to  produce  so  and  so  many  recalls 
after  an  act.  In  those  days  this  was  not  necessary. 
The  public  applauded  wildly  and  shouted  themselves 
hoarse  of  their  own  free  will,  and  the  papers  almost  unani¬ 
mously  pronounced  the  performances  an  artistic  revolu¬ 
tion,  and  said  that  such  dramatic  truth  and  ensemble  work 
had  but  seldom  before  been  presented  in  such  a  convincing 
way  on  the  operatic  stage  of  New  York. 

During  the  entire  winter  I  lived  in  a  sea  of  excitement 
and  of  joy  at  seeing  my  father’s  genius  at  last  so  univer¬ 
sally  recognized.  But  my  anxiety  was  also  very  great. 
I  was  with  him  constantly,  from  morning  until  night,  and 
could  see  that  the  labor  of  carrying  everything  entirely 
on  his  shoulders,  the  effort  of  organizing  an  artistic  whole 
out  of  the  many  different  elements,  was  overwhelming. 
The  rehearsals  often  lasted  all  day  and  I  do  not  think 
that  I  missed  a  rehearsal  or  a  performance  during  the 
entire  season.  Sometimes  I  would  timidly  implore  my 
father  to  put  some  of  the  work,  especially  the  managerial 
part,  on  other  shoulders,  but  he  would  not  listen,  saying 
that  the  responsibility  was  his  and  that  he  could  not  dele¬ 
gate  what  he  conceived  to  be  his  solemn  duty  as  one 
representing  German  art  in  a  foreign  country  to  any  one 
else. 

In  the  meantime,  the  directors,  after  deliberating  on 
their  future  course,  decided  that  opera  in  German  had 
come  to  stay  and  offered  my  father  a  contract  for  the 
following  year  in  which,  however,  with  what  they  con¬ 
ceived  to  be  real  business  methods,  they  reduced  his 
salary  to  eight  thousand  dollars  but  offered  him  a  share 
in  any  possible  profits.  Money  matters  were  to  my  father 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  57 


always  so  unimportant  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  that 
I  think  he  would  have  signed  a  contract  in  which  he  bound 
himself  to  pay  eight  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House  for  the  privilege  of  maintaining 
Wagnerian  opera  there.  He  accepted  their  proposition 
and  was  happy  in  the  evident  security  of  opera  in  German 
for  many  years  to  come.  During  this  winter  he  would 
not  give  up  his  beloved  Symphony  and  Oratorio  Societies, 
and  he  always  insisted  that  the  weekly  Thursday  evening 
rehearsals  with  the  chorus  of  the  Oratorio  Society  were 
a  rest  for  him  from  operatic  affairs. 

During  one  of  these  rehearsals  in  February  1885  (I 
think  we  were  preparing  the  “ Matthew  Passion”  of 
Bach)  he  suddenly  complained  of  feeling  ill  and  I  rushed 
from  the  piano  toward  him,  and  together  with  some  of 
the  singers  we  carried  him  to  a  cab  and  brought  him 
home. 

Pneumonia  set  in  and  he  was  too  worn  with  the  gigantic 
struggles  of  the  winter  to  withstand  it.  During  this 
terrible  week  of  illness  the  opera  had  to  be  kept  going  and  I 
conducted  “Walkiire”  and  “Tannhauser  ”  without  much 
difficulty.  They  had  been  so  splendidly  rehearsed  by 
my  father  and  had  been  performed  several  times;  I  knew 
them  by  heart,  and  artists,  chorus,  and  orchestra  gave  me 
the  most  affectionate  and  willing  assistance.  I  have 
therefore  never  claimed  much  credit  for  what  many  kind 
friends  at  that  time  considered  an  extraordinary  feat. 

The  season  had  only  one  more  week  to  run,  but  my 
father  had  made  arrangements  for  a  short  tour  comprising 
Chicago,  Boston,  and  Philadelphia. 

On  February  15  he  died  and  left  me  numb  and  over¬ 
whelmed  by  the  terrible  responsibilities  which  began  to 
press  in  upon  me.  Even  at  this  late  date  I  cannot  bear 


58 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


to  write  of  my  loss.  Our  relations  had  become  so  close 
and  intimate,  and  during  the  last  years  he  had  so  often 
leaned  on  me  with  such  sweet  confidence.  I  had  always 
looked  up  to  him  as  my  ideal  of  a  man  and  musician,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  never  smile  again. 

The  last  performances  at  the  Metropolitan  immediately 
after  his  death  were  conducted  by  John  Lund,  a  highly 
talented  chorus  master  who  has  since  made  his  home  in 
America,  but  there  were  so  many  immediate  necessities 
crowding  in  upon  me  that  I  had  no  opportunity  for  in¬ 
dulging  in  quiet  grief.  Events  moved  with  incredible 
and  terrible  swiftness.  The  contracts  for  the  tour  had 
to  be  met.  My  father’s  estate  was  technically  liable, 
although  he  left  literally  no  money.  There  was  no  one  to 
assume  the  responsibility  of  taking  the  company  on  tour 
except  poor  me,  and  I  accordingly  set  forth,  together 
with  the  entire  company  of  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
members,  on  a  special  train  of  the  West  Shore  Railroad 
for  Chicago  on  Saturday  afternoon  of  February  21.  We 
were  to  open  with  “Tannhauser”  at  the  Columbia  Theatre 
on  the  following  Monday  evening.  During  this  trip  the 
worst  blizzard  of  the  year  struck  our  train.  We  were 
completely  snowed  in  and  the  road,  which  was  at  that 
time  a  rather  lame  rival  of  the  New  York  Central,  was  so 
ill-equipped  with  means  to  shovel  us  out  that  instead  of 
arriving  on  Sunday  evening,  we  did  not  get  into  Chicago 
until  Monday  at  eight  P.  M.,  the  hour  at  which  the  per¬ 
formance  was  to  have  begun.  My  dear  brother  Frank, 
who  had  come  on  from  Denver  to  meet  me  in  Chicago 
and  to  discuss  future  plans,  boarded  our  train  a  little 
while  out  of  Chicago  and  told  me  that  not  only  was  the 
house  sold  out,  but  all  had  determined  to  wait  until  we 
arrived  and  chivalrously  to  “see  us  through.”  The 


DOCTOR  LEOPOLD  DAMROSCH 
From  a  drawing  by  Friedrich  Preller  made  in  Weimar,  October  7,  1857 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  59 


mayor  of  the  city  had  made  an  excited  speech  from  the 
proscenium  box  in  which  he  was  sitting  and  said  that 
Chicago  must  help  a  young  man  like  myself  who  had  so 
courageously  undertaken  to  carry  on  the  great  work  of 
his  father. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  station  the  company  were 
quickly  bundled  into  cabs  and  omnibuses.  Luckily  the 
scenery  had  been  sent  on  ahead,  but  the  costume  and 
property  trunks  were  on  our  train,  and  the  work  of  trans¬ 
ferring  them  and  getting  out  the  “Tannhauser”  costumes 
and  properties  was  agonizing. 

Materna  and  I  were  the  first  to  arrive  at  the  theatre, 
and  we  were  marched  through  the  auditorium  from  the 
front  entrance  by  the  local  manager  who  wished  to  give 
this  ocular  demonstration  of  our  presence.  The  audience 
cheered. 

Behind  the  scenes  the  confusion  was  incredible.  The 
trunks  with  the  wigs  could  not  be  found,  nor  the  trunks 
with  the  footwear,  and  Tannhauser  and  the  other  singers 
of  the  Wartburg,  together  with  the  noble  lords  and  ladies, 
appeared  on  the  stage  in  a  most  remarkable  combina¬ 
tion  of  costumes,  mediaeval  and  modern.  But  it  made  no 
difference.  I  began  the  overture  after  ten  o’clock.  The 
audience  cheered  themselves  hoarse. 

The  trunk  containing  Materna’s  costume  as  Elizabeth 
was  not  hurled  on  the  stage  until  just  before  the  beginning 
of  the  second  act.  It  made  no  difference.  When  she 
appeared  in  all  her  smiling  radiance  and  sang  “Dich 
Theure  Halle”  the  audience  again  went  mad  with  delight, 
and  so  on  until  the  curtain  finally  fell  at  one-thirty  in  the 
morning. 

Ever  since  that  terrible  but  wonderful  evening  I  have 
had  a  soft  spot  in  my  heart  for  Chicago,  and  during  the 


6o 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


many  years  I  have  never  lost  the  friendship  of  that  re¬ 
markable  city.  Even  to-day,  every  now  and  then,  an 
old  gray-headed  or  bald-headed  citizen  of  Chicago  comes 
to  me  and  says:  “Do  you  remember  that  first  performance 
of  ‘Tannhauser’  at  the  Columbia  Theatre  in  February, 
1885?” 

The  success  was  so  great  that  we  extended  our  season 
an  extra  week,  during  which  I  produced  for  the  first  time 
“La  Dame  Blanche”  by  Boieldieu. 

We  finished  our  tour  with  a  week  in  Boston,  where  we 
had  a  similarly  enthusiastic  reception,  and  especially 
“Walkure”  and  “Lohengrin”  made  a  profound  impres¬ 
sion.  There  I  produced  (for  the  first  time  in  America, 
I  think)  Gluck’s  “Orpheus,”  in  which  Marianne  Brandt 
gave  a  glorious  and  touching  impersonation  of  the  title- 
role.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  audacity  of  youth  that  I 
should  have  given  two  new  performances  of  operas  which 
were  rehearsed  and  produced  while  we  were  on  tour, 
“La  Dame  Blanche”  and  “Orpheus.”  But  as  the  prin¬ 
cipal  roles  had  been  sung  by  most  of  our  artists  in  Ger¬ 
many,  these  two  operas  being  in  the  regular  repertoire 
of  every  German  opera-house,  the  feat  was  not  so  extraor¬ 
dinary.  The  performances  were  good  in  ensemble  and 
gave  great  pleasure  to  the  audience. 

My  farewell  performance  in  Boston  was  a  Saturday 
matinee  of  the  “Walkure”  with  Materna  as  Brunhilde. 
In  the  morning  the  orchestra  struck.  We  had  made 
arrangements  to  send  the  entire  company  to  New  York 
on  one  of  the  large  Fall  River  steamers,  but  they  vowed 
that  they  would  not  go  by  steamer  and  insisted  on  being 
sent  by  train.  I  was  equally  determined  to  send  them  by 
water.  The  steamers  were  palatial,  the  weather  excellent 
spring  weather,  and  there  was  no  valid  reason  for  object- 


THE  FOUNDING  OF  GERMAN  OPERA  61 


ing.  When  they  persisted  in  their  demands  I  told  them 
that  I  would  consider  them  as  having  broken  their  con¬ 
tracts,  that  I  would  not  pay  them  their  salaries  for  the 
week,  and  would  give  the  “Walklire”  performance  ac¬ 
companied  on  two  pianos,  by  John  Lund  and  myself. 
This  was,  of  course,  a  crazy  bluff,  but  it  worked  and  they 
decided  to  accept  passage  by  steamer. 

At  the  close  of  the  third  act  of  “Walklire,”  when 
Materna  as  Brunhilde  had  snuggled  into  the  artificially 
deep  hollow  of  the  rocky  couch  which  sustained  her 
bulky  form  and  on  which  she  was  to  begin  her  slumber  of 
years  until  the  hero,  Siegfried ,  should  awaken  her,  and 
when  StaudigI  ( Wotan )  had  disappeared  in  the  flames,  I 
suddenly  noticed,  while  conducting  the  beautiful  monot¬ 
ony  of  the  last  E-major  chords  of  the  Fire  Charm,  that  the 
grass  mats  just  below  Brunhilde’ s  couch  had  caught  fire, 
and  that  just  as  the  curtain  was  descending  slowly  on  the 
last  bars  a  Boston  fireman  with  helmet  on  his  head  and 
bucket  in  his  hand  quietly  came  out  from  the  wings  and 
poured  a  liberal  dose  of  water  on  the  flames.  The  thing 
happened  so  late  and  so  quickly  that  there  was  no  panic. 
The  people  went  mad  with  enthusiasm  and  Materna, 
StaudigI,  and  I  had  to  bow  our  farewells  many,  many 
times.  Just  after  one  of  these  recalls  I  noted  the  little 
fireman  standing  in  the  wings  and  saying:  “Be  jabbers,  I 
ought  to  come  out  too.” 

“So  you  should,”  I  said,  and  with  that  took  him  by 
one  hand  and  Materna  by  the  other  and  thus  we  dragged 
him  before  the  footlights  where,  with  true  Hibernian  sense 
of  humor,  he  bowed  right  and  left  with  a  delighted  grin 
on  his  face. 

Thus  ended  my  first  opera  tour. 

While  I  was  on  tour  the  directors  of  the  Metropolitan 


62 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Opera  House  met  to  consider  their  future  policy,  and,  in 
view  of  the  success  of  the  opera  in  German  inaugurated 
by  my  father,  they  decided  to  continue  on  the  same  lines. 
Curiously  enough  they  appointed  a  young  man  as  director 
of  the  opera  who  had  never  had  any  managerial  or  musi-  4 
cal  experience  in  his  life.  His  name  was  Edmund  C. 
Stanton.  He  was  a  relative  of  one  of  the  directors  and 
had  acted  as  recording  secretary  for  the  Board  of  Direc¬ 
tors.  He  was  tall,  good-looking,  with  gentle  brown  eyes, 
always  well  groomed,  of  a  kindly  disposition  and  the  most 
perfect  and  courtly  manners  which  indeed  never  failed 
him  and  which  were  about  all  that  he  had  left  at  the  end 
of  his  seven  years’  incumbency,  at  which  time  the  German 
opera  crumbled  to  dust  as  a  natural  result  of  his  curious 
ignorance  and  incompetency  in  matters  operatic.  The 
directors  at  the  same  time  very  generously  appointed  me 
as  his  assistant  and  as  second  conductor,  granting  me  a 
salary  which  was  large  enough  to  enable  me  to  support 
my  mother  and  my  father’s  family  decently.  This  was 
naturally  a  great  relief  to  me  and  I  determined  to  strain 
every  nerve  to  show  myself  worthy  of  such  confidence 
and  generosity. 


VII 


LILLI  LEHMANN 

In  the  spring  of  1885  I  was  to  accompany  Mr.  Stanton 
as  assistant  director  and  musical  adviser  to  engage  singers 
for  the  following  season  of  German  opera  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House,  but  as  Mr.  Stanton’s  little  daughter 
became  ill  and  subsequently  died,  I  went  over  alone  and 
have  always  been  quite  proud  of  the  four  contracts  I 
had  ready  for  Stanton’s  signature  when  he,  a  month 
later,  arrived  in  Germany.  These  were  Lilli  Lehmann, 
soprano  from  the  Royal  Opera  House  in  Berlin;  Emil 
Fischer,  bass  from  the  Royal  Opera  House  in  Dresden; 
Max  Alvary,  lyric  tenor  from  Weimar,  and  Anton  SeidI, 
conductor  of  the  Angelo  Neumann  Wagner  Opera  Com¬ 
pany.  These  four  artists  became  subsequently  the  main¬ 
stay  of  the  German  opera  and  in  America  developed  to 
greater  and  greater  power  and  fame. 

Lilli  Lehmann,  at  that  time  forty  years  of  age,  had 
sung  principally  the  coloratura  roles,  and  with  these  had 
made  a  great  local  reputation  throughout  Germany  and 
Austria.  She  had  sung  the  First  Rhine  Maiden  at 
Bayreuth  in  1876,  and  an  occasional  Elsa  in  “  Lohengrin,” 
but  it  was  not  until  she  came  to  America  that  she  began 
to  sing  the  Brunhildes  and  Isoldes  which  made  her  one  of 
the  greatest  dramatic  sopranos  of  her  time.  Curiously 
enough,  she  insisted  on  making  her  first  appearance  in 
America  as  Carmen ,  a  role  to  which  she  gave  a  dramatic, 
tragic,  and  rather  sombre  significance,  but  in  which  the 

63 


6q 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


lighter,  coquettish  touches  were  perhaps  not  sufficiently 
emphasized. 

She  had  achieved  her  pre-eminence  as  a  dramatic 
soprano  only  after  years  of  the  hardest  kind  of  work, 
and  had  only  through  her  indomitable  will  and  energy 
changed  her  voice  from  a  light  coloratura  to  a  dramatic 
soprano,  and  as  I  was  at  that  period  only  twenty-three 
and  already  occupied  a  position  of  considerable  responsi¬ 
bility,  it  took  some  time  before  she  was  ready  to  concede 
that  I  was  really  a  musician  of  serious  purpose  who  was 
working  day  and  night  to  fit  myself  for  the  various  re¬ 
sponsibilities  so  suddenly  thrust  upon  me. 

Conducting  is  an  art  with  a  technic  of  its  own,  and 
good  musicianship  alone  is  not  sufficient.  During  a  per¬ 
formance  the  conductor  must  know  how  to  make  his 
singers  and  players  convey  his  interpretation,  and  to  do 
this,  a  glance  of  the  eye  and  many  different  movements 
of  hands  and  head  have  to  speak  a  language  of  their  own 
which  his  executants  must  quickly  understand  and  fol¬ 
low.  The  conductor  must  also  know  when  and  how  to 
follow  a  soloist  with  sympathy.  This  technic  cannot 
be  acquired  overnight,  and  I  owe  to  Lilli  Lehmann  a 
valuable  hint  in  this  connection.  As  Anton  SeidI  was  the 
accredited  and  celebrated  Wagner  conductor,  these  operas 
and  any  other  novelties  of  importance  naturally  fell  to 
him,  and  it  remained  for  me  to  conduct  only  such  operas 
as  he  did  not  care  to  assume — Meyerbeer’s  “Le  Pro- 
phete,”  Verdi’s  “Trovatore,”  etc.,  etc.  This  caused  me 
great  sorrow  and  anguish  of  heart,  as  a  great  part  of  my 
training  had  been  in  the  modern  operas.  I  almost  knew 
the  Wagner  music-dramas  by  heart  and  had  received  a 
very  thorough  training  in  the  symphonies  of  the  classic 
composers,  but  for  the  operas  of  Meyerbeer  and  Verdi, 


LILLI  LEHMANN 


6  5 


I  had  a  youthful  intolerance,  and  of  their  traditions  of 
tempi  and  nuance  I  knew  but  little,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  Meyerbeer’s  “Le  Prophete,”  which  had  been 
marvellously  performed  under  my  father  the  preceding 
year  and  in  which  Marianne  Brandt  had  sung  the  part 
of  the  mother  with  incredible  pathos  and  nobility. 

One  day,  while  I  was  rehearsing  “La  Juive,”  of  Halevy, 
Lilli  Lehmann  turned  on  me  during  the  intermission  and 
said:  “Walter,  in  those  old  operas  you  do  not  watch  the 
singers  enough,  you  are  occupied  with  the  orchestra  as  if 
you  were  conducting  a  symphony.  You  give  them  the 
cue  for  their  entrances  and  you  look  at  them  instead  of 
at  your  singers.  We  need  you  and  you  need  us.  The 
orchestra  have  their  printed  parts  before  them;  we  sing 
by  heart  and  have  to  rely  on  the  conductor  for  difficult 
entrances.  Watch  my  lips  when  I  sing,  and  you  will 
know  when  I  breathe  and  you  will  breathe  with  me;  you 
will  immediately  also  sense  the  tempo  rubato  which  is  such 
an  important  part  in  the  proper  phrasing  of  these  older 
operas.” 

This  advice  was  a  revelation  to  me,  and  I  found  to  my 
delight  that  by  heeding  it,  not  only  was  I  able  to  follow 
the  singers  with  the  orchestra,  but  even  to  influence  the 
singers  in  regard  to  tempi.  At  the  performance  of  “La 
Juive”  I  must  have  stared  at  Lilli  like  a  Cheshire  cat 
whenever  she  was  singing.  The  music  went  with  re¬ 
markable  unanimity  and  elasticity,  and  at  the  close  of 
the  performance  Lilli,  who  was  never  very  profuse  in 
praise,  turned  to  me  and  said:  “You  see,  Walter,  how  well 
it  goes.  What  did  I  tell  you?” 

In  this  way,  slowly  and  often  painfully,  I  strengthened 
my  grasp  of  the  technic  of  my  craft,  and  with  increased 
assurance  on  my  part  came  an  increased  compliance  on  the 


66 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


part  of  the  singers  to  follow  my  artistic  desires  as  regards 
the  interpretation  of  their  roles. 

But  the  operas  that  I  was  permitted  to  conduct  were 
still  only  the  left-overs  from  Anton  SeidFs  richly  laden 
table,  and  he  was  naturally  not  willing  to  give  up  any  of 
his  prerogatives  to  a  man  so  much  younger.  My  first 
real  opportunity  came  in  the  year  1890,  when  SeidI  was 
to  conduct  an  exquisite  opera  by  Peter  Cornelius,  “The 
Barber  of  Bagdad.”  Paul  Kalisch,  Lilli  Lehmann’s 
husband,  was  to  sing  Nureddin  and  Emil  Fischer  the 
loquacious  Barber.  Cornelius  had  been  a  devoted  and 
close  friend  of  my  father  and  mother  in  the  old  Weimar 
days  under  Liszt.  Liszt  had  produced  this  opera  in 
Weimar  in  those  days,  but  the  Weimar  public  had  re¬ 
jected  it  because  of  what  they  considered  to  be  its  ultra¬ 
modern  tendencies,  and  because  of  this,  Liszt  had  resigned 
his  position  of  Grand  Ducal  Kapellmeister.  I  was  nat¬ 
urally  much  interested  in  our  New  York  production.  I 
had  attended  almost  every  rehearsal  and  had  revelled  in 
the  exquisite  beauties  and  humor  of  the  work. 

Two  days  before  the  performance,  SeidI  became  dan¬ 
gerously  ill  and  I  was  in  a  fever  of  uncertainty  whether 
Stanton  would  postpone  the  performance  or  let  me  con¬ 
duct  it.  I  found  that  Lilli  Lehmann  protested  loudly 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  conduct  this  work, 
that  it  was  too  difficult  and  too  intricate,  and  that  it 
needed  a  conductor  of  many  years’  experience  and  plenty 
of  rehearsals  at  that.  But  I  seemed  to  have  “good  friends 
at  court”  and  it  was  decided  that  I  should  conduct  the 
general  rehearsal  that  morning  for  which  singers,  chorus, 
and  orchestra  had  been  hastily  called  together,  and  if  all 
went  well  I  was  to  conduct  the  performance.  As  I  walked 
into  the  orchestra  pit  I  could  see  Lilli  Lehmann  seated 


LILLI  LEHMANN 


67 


all  by  herself  a  few  rows  back,  looking  at  me  with  what 
seemed  to  me  baleful  and  threatening  eyes.  But  as  I 
turned  my  back  on  her  and  gave  the  signal  for  the  over¬ 
ture,  my  apprehension  left  me  and  I  gave  myself  up 
completely  to  the  music.  The  curtain  rose  and  Kalisch 
began  Nureddin s  lovely  song  together  with  his  attendants 
on  awakening  from  his  long  illness  to  renewed  health 
and  with  renewed  longings  for  his  beloved  Margiana. 
Everything  went  as  if  on  wings  and  at  the  end  of  the 
act  I  saw,  to  my  delight,  among  the  singers  who  were 
rushing  toward  me  with  affectionate  congratulations, 
Lilli,  the  stately,  telling  me  that  she  had  not  believed  it 
possible,  but  was  now  convinced  that  I  had  a  thorough 
grasp  of  the  music  and  could  conduct  it  successfully. 

The  performance  the  next  day  went  even  better  than 
the  rehearsal,  and  I  date  from  this  my  entry  as  a  full- 
fledged  opera  conductor,  and  my  relations  with  Lilli 
Lehmann  became  artistically  more  and  more  fraternal 
and  personally  more  and  more  friendly. 

In  1897-98  I  engaged  her  to  sing  Isolde  and  the  Brun- 
hildes  in  my  Damrosch  Opera  Company  and  paid  her  a 
thousand  dollars  a  night  and  all  hotel  and  travelling 
expenses  for  two  people  (her  sister  Marie  travelled  with 
her),  and  she  also  insisted  that  I  must  pay  her  laundry 
bills.  But  I  found  that  this  remarkable  woman,  having 
established  her  right  to  these  perquisites  by  contract, 
refused  to  abuse  them,  and  when  she  found  that  I  paid 
quite  a  large  figure  for  her  “ parlor,  bedroom,  and  bath” 
at  the  Normandie  Hotel  near  the  Metropolitan,  she  was 
furious;  and,  saying  that  she  did  not  see  why  these  rascally 
hotel  proprietors  should  be  enriched  by  me,  she  moved  to 
a  much  cheaper  suite  at  the  top  of  the  hotel  and  she  and 
her  sister  did  a  great  deal  of  their  laundry  in  their  own 


68 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


bathroom,  partly  because  she  wished  to  save  me  the 
expense,  and  also  because  she  insisted  that  all  American 
laundries  ruined  delicate  lingerie.  Incidentally  the  ele¬ 
vator  boys  insisted  that  she  never  tipped  them,  and  I  sent 
my  manager  to  her  hotel  to  do  this,  as  otherwise  she 
would  not  have  received  adequate  service. 

So  much  has  been  written  about  her  marvellous  por¬ 
trayal  of  the  heroic  figures  in  the  Wagner  music-dramas 
that  it  is  hardly  necessary  for  me  to  add  anything  to  the 
general  chorus  of  admiration,  but  I  wish  to  emphasize 
the  fact  that  by  far  the  greater  part  of  the  credit  belongs 
to  her  for  her  indomitable  will  and  perseverance,  as 
nature  had  not  given  her  originally  a  dramatic  voice. 
It  was  a  wonderfully  clear  and  high  coloratura  soprano, 
but  by  persistent  practice  she  developed  an  ample  middle 
and  lower  register  and  made  it  equal  to  the  emotional 
demands  of  an  Isolde  or  a  Brunhilde. 

Her  acting  was  majestic,  but  in  the  first  act  of  “  Tris¬ 
tan  ”  and  in  the  second  act  of  “Gotterdammerung”  her 
anger  was  like  forked  flashes  of  lightning.  I  suppose  that 
her  technic  of  acting  would  be  called  old-fashioned  to¬ 
day,  as  those  were  the  days  of  statuesque  poses,  often 
maintained  without  changes  for  long  stretches  at  a  time. 

On  the  forenoon  of  the  days  that  she  had  to  sing  Isolde 
she  always  sang  through  the  entire  role  in  her  rooms  with 
full  voice,  just  to  make  sure  that  she  could  do  it  in  the 
evening.  Compare  this  to  those  delicate  prima  donnas 
who,  on  the  days  when  they  have  to  sing,  often  speak  only 
in  whispers  in  order  that  their  precious  vocal  cords  may 
not  be  affected. 

Having  achieved  so  much  through  her  own  energy  and 
triumphed  over  so  many  obstacles,  she  thought  that  she 
could  similarly  transform  her  husband,  Paul  Kalisch, 


LILLI  LEHMANN  AS  ISOLDE 


» 


LILLI  LEHMANN 


69 


from  a  lyric  to  a  dramatic  tenor.  How  she  worked  and 
harassed  that  poor  man !  She  certainly  was  the  stronger 
of  the  two,  and  while  his  entire  inclination  was  toward 
easy  and  delightful  companionship  with  others  of  similar 
inclinations,  she  forced  him  to  study  and  to  sing  for  hours 
at  a  stretch,  but  with  only  partial  success  as  far  as  his 
transformation  into  a  real  dramatic  and  “heroic”  Wagner 
tenor  was  concerned.  It  simply  was  not  in  his  nature  to 
become  “heroic,”  and  when,  as  sometimes  happened,  he 
committed  some  blunder,  some  false  entrance  while  sing¬ 
ing  Siegfried  in  the  “Gotterdammerung,”  the  glances 
which  Brunhilde  cast  upon  him  on  the  stage  were  so 
terrible,  so  pregnant  with  punishment  to  come,  that 
from  my  conductor’s  stand  I  used  to  pity  the  poor  man 
thus  compelled  to  swim  around  in  a  pond  which  was  so 
much  larger  than  he  wanted;  and  often  after  such  a 
performance  I  would  find  him  moodily  seated  all  alone 
at  a  table  in  the  restaurant  of  the  hotel  with  a  pint  bottle 
of  champagne  before  him  and  with  no  desire  to  go  up¬ 
stairs  and  face  the  anger  of  his  Brunhilde  spouse. 

A  tragic  but  rather  amusing  occurrence  in  Pittsburgh 
should  here  be  recorded.  The  Damrosch  Opera  Company 
was  playing  a  week  there  at  the  Alvin  Theatre.  On  the 
night  in  question  we  were  to  give  “Gotterdammerung” 
with  Lilli  Lehmann  as  Brunhilde.  All  was  well.  No 
singers  had  sent  ominous  messages  of  illness  during  the 
day,  and  I  had  just  sat  down  to  a  quiet  dinner  at  the 
Duquesne  Club,  previous  to  the  performance,  when  a 
telephone  summoned  me.  It  was  my  wardrobe  mistress, 
Frau  Engelhardt,  an  excellent  woman,  devoted  to  her 
work,  who  had  been  at  the  Metropolitan  in  the  old  German 
opera  days  and  who  had  been  with  me  ever  since  the 
founding  of  the  Damrosch  Opera  Company.  She  im- 


70 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


plored  me  to  come  to  the  theatre  immediately  as  some¬ 
thing  dreadful  had  happened.  I  of  course  left  my  dinner 
with  but  faint  hope  of  eating  it  later  on,  arrived  at  the 
theatre  and  found  the  stage  silent  as  the  grave,  the  scene 
set  for  the  first  act  of  “Gotterdammerung”  and  seemingly 
no  one  there  but  Frau  Engelhardt,  who  in  greatest  agita¬ 
tion  begged  me  to  come  immediately  to  Madame  Leh¬ 
mann’s  dressing-room,  where  the  “  something  dreadful 
had  happened.” 

I  knocked  at  her  door  and  heard  a  tragic  and  hollow 
voice  call  “come  in,”  and  as  I  opened  the  door  a  sight 
indeed  terrible  met  my  astonished  gaze.  There  stood 
Lilli  Lehmann,  already  apparelled  in  her  white  Brun - 
hilde  garb,  but  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  soot,  so 
black  that  she  seemed  more  fit  for  a  minstrel  show  than 
a  Wagner  music-drama.  Her  face  was  covered  with 
black  streaks,  especially  where  her  tears  had  made  long 
and  terrible  furrows  down  her  cheeks.  I  could  not 
imagine  what  had  happened,  and  only  gradually  and  be¬ 
tween  hysterical  bursts  of  tears,  I  learned  that  Lilli, 
according  to  her  custom,  had  gone  to  the  theatre  hours 
before  the  performance  and  had  proceeded  to  dress  her¬ 
self,  only  looking  into  the  glass  at  the  last  moment  to 
prepare  her  make-up.  She  had  then  discovered  the 
terrible  condition  of  her  face  and  costume.  It  seemed 
that  the  janitor  had  given  the  heater  in  the  cellar  a  special 
raking  which  had  sent  tons  of  this  dreadful  Pittsburgh 
soft-coal  soot  flying  through  the  registers  and  into  the 
dressing-rooms  where  it  settled  like  a  pall  on  everything 
within  roach. 

Lilli  vowed  that  it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  her 
to  sing  that  night  and  I  was  in  despair.  It  suddenly 
came  to  me  that  if  I  could  divert  her  mind  in  some  way 


LILLI  LEHMANN 


7i 


the  tension  might  be  eased,  and  I  therefore  turned  on 
poor  trembling  Frau  Engelhardt  and  told  her  in  as  angry 
tones  as  I  could  dramatically  summon,  that  she  was  dis¬ 
charged,  that  it  was  her  duty  to  take  care  of  my  artists, 
and  to  allow  such  an  outrage  to  happen  to  the  greatest 
of  all  of  them  was  something  which  I  could  not  under¬ 
stand  or  forgive. 

As  soon  as  I  denounced  our  wardrobe  mistress  in  this 
manner,  Lilli  pricked  up  her  ears  and  remonstrated  with 
me  at  my  injustice.  She  insisted  that  it  was  not  Frau 
Engelhardt’s  fault  and  that  it  was  very  wrong  of  me  to 
discharge  her.  It  showed  that  I  had  no  heart  and  she 
for  one  would  never  hold  her  responsible  for  such  an 
occurrence.  Slowly  I  allowed  myself  to  be  persuaded 
and  at  the  psychological  moment  gently  left  the  dressing- 
room,  giving  Frau  Engelhardt  a  comprehensive  glance 
which  she  understood.  I  knew  that  the  two  women  to¬ 
gether  would  soon  set  matters  to  right. 

Outside  the  dressing-room  I  found  my  faithful  Hans, 
son  of  my  prompter,  Goettich.  I  gave  him  some  money 
and  told  him  to  run  to  a  florist  and  buy  a  bunch  of  the 
whitest  flowers  that  he  could  find  and  to  bring  them  to 
Madame  Lehmann  with  my  compliments.  I  then  re¬ 
turned  to  the  club  and  finished  my  dinner. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  theatre  just  before  the  perform¬ 
ance,  I  found  Lilli  already  on  the  stage,  newly  attired 
in  clean  white  robes,  but  as  she  turned  toward  me  I 
could  still  discern  darkish  streaks  beneath  the  make-up 
of  her  cheeks,  and  in  her  sombre,  dramatic  voice  she 
said:  “Walter,  I  thank  you  for  the  lovely  white  flowers, 
but  they  will  never,  never  wash  me  clean  again.”  Her 
singing  that  night  seemed  to  me  more  glorious  than  ever. 

From  Pittsburgh  we  went  to  New  York,  where  I  had 


72 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


arranged  with  Abbey  and  Grau  to  give  me  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House  for  a  short  season  of  three  weeks. 
As  I  wanted  a  special  attraction  for  New  York,  I  engaged 
Madame  Nordica  for  a  few  “Lohengrin”  performances  in 
which  she  was  to  sing  Elsa,  and  Lilli  Lehmann,  Ortrude, 
a  part  that  she  had  never  sung  in  New  York,  but  whose 
dramatic  possibilities  interested  her  very  much  and  for 
which  she  was  eminently  suited.  At  first  she  was  furious 
that  I  had  engaged  any  other  singer  for  New  York. 
“If  I  was  sufficient  to  carry  on  your  season  out  of  town,  I 

do  not  see  why  you  have  to  engage  that -  for  New 

York/’  But  I  explained  to  her  my  managerial  reasons 
and  somewhat  pacified  her,  and  as  soon  as  we  arrived  in 
New  York  I  arranged  for  a  little  rehearsal  on  the  stage  of 
the  Metropolitan  for  Lehmann,  Nordica,  and  myself, 
in  order  that  all  the  scenes,  especially  of  the  second  act, 
in  which  their  acting  together  was  of  importance,  might 
be  properly  arranged.  At  this  rehearsal  Lehmann  treated 
Nordica  with  icy  disdain,  but  Nordica  acted  with  such 
clever  tact  and  deference  that  Lehmann  could  find  no 
hook  upon  which  to  hang  her  anger,  and  the  rehearsal 
passed  off  with  outward  calmness,  although  I  could  feel 
the  volcano  trembling  beneath.  As  we  passed  out  into 
the  street  in  the  late  afternoon  a  terrible  rain-storm  was 
raging  and  Lilli  saw  Madame  Nordica  approach  a  coach¬ 
man  in  livery  who  was  waiting  with  opened  umbrella  to 
take  her  to  her  coupe.  Lilli,  clad  in  a  long  gray  rain-coat 
and  old  hat,  turned  to  Nordica:  “Ha,  you  ride?  I  valk !” 
she  said,  as  she  lifted  her  dress  and  showed  a  pair  of 
great  boots. 

Incidentally  my  “showman’s  instinct”  had  proved 
correct.  Our  performances  of  “Lohengrin”  with  this 
combination  proved  artistically  very  interesting  and  the 


LILLI  LEHMANN 


73 


public  flocked  to  hear  them.  Nordica’s  Elsa  had  been 
very  carefully  trained  at  Bayreuth,  and  Lehmann’s 
Ortrude  was  truly  demoniac,  worthy  to  rank  with  that  of 
Marianne  Brandt’s  in  its  representation  of  concentrated 
hatred. 


VIII 


HANS  VON  BULOW 

In  1856  my  father  and  Hans  von  Biilow,  pianist,  were 
struggling  to  gain  recognition  and  a  livelihood  in  Berlin. 
Both  were  idealists  and  enthusiastic  followers  of  the 
“new  school”  in  music,  of  which  Berlioz,  Liszt,  and  Wag¬ 
ner  were  the  great  representatives.  Biilow’s  letters  of 
that  period  show  that  they  gave  many  chamber-music 
concerts  together,  both  in  Berlin  and  elsewhere,  and  it  is 
interesting  to  note  that  at  one  of  them,  together  with 
the  violoncellist,  Kossman,  they  performed  a  trio  by 
“Cesar  Franck  of  Liege,”  about  thirty  years  before  this 
father  of  the  modern  French  school  of  composition  be¬ 
came  generally  known  and  recognized.  It  was  through 
Biilow  that  my  father  and  his  achievements  as  a  violin 
virtuoso  and  composer  became  known  to  Liszt,  who 
invited  him,  in  1857,  to  become  violinist  at  the  first 
desk  of  the  Weimar  Opera  Orchestra,  then  under  Liszt’s 
direction. 

The  friendship  between  Biilow  and  my  father  remained 
intimate  and  fine  during  my  father’s  entire  life,  and  even 
beyond,  as  this  chapter  will  show. 

My  first  recollection  of  Biilow  goes  back  to  1876,  when 
he  came  to  America  at  the  invitation  of  the  Chickering 
Piano  firm  to  inaugurate  their  new  Chickering  Hall  on 
Fifth  Avenue  and  19th  Street,  and  to  give  piano  recitals 
all  over  the  country. 

When  my  father  and  mother  went  to  Berlin  in  the 

74 


HANS  VON  BULOW 


75 


sixties  for  a  joint  concert  with  Biilow,  they  stayed  with 
him  and  his  wife,  Cosima.  Since  then  much  had  hap¬ 
pened.  Cosima  had  run  away  with  Wagner,  Billow’s 
most  adored  friend,  and  Biilow  had  nearly  died  with  the 
shame  and  misery  of  it.  One  evening  during  dinner  at 
our  house  my  mother  asked  him  about  his  children,  whom 
she  had  not  seen  since  those  early  days,  and  I  can  still 
hear  the  punctilious  courtesy  with  which  he  answered: 
'‘They  are  where  they  should  be,  and  in  the  best  possible 
hands — with  their  mother.” 

The  fine  intellectuality  of  his  playing,  the  quality  of 
his  phrasing,  especially  in  Bach  and  Beethoven,  created 
a  deep  impression  on  our  public  which  was  not  minimized 
by  certain  eccentricities  in  his  appearance  and  behavior. 
He  always  appeared  on  the  stage  for  his  afternoon  recitals 
attired  in  the  traditional  black  double-breasted  frock- 
coat  and  very  light-gray  trousers,  his  hands  incased  in 
light-brown  gloves  and  holding  a  high  silk  hat  which  was 
carefully  deposited  under  the  piano  before  he  took  off  his 
gloves  and  began  to  play. 

For  one  of  his  recitals  a  young  and  highly  talented 
soprano,  Miss  Emma  Thursby,  had  been  engaged.  She 
was  a  protegee  of  old  Maurice  Strakosch,  an  impresario 
of  the  old  school,  shrewd,  polished  in  his  manners,  who 
very  cleverly  advertised  the  high  personal  character  of 
the  young  singer  and  especially  her  great  “purity,”  vow¬ 
ing  that  acquaintance  with  her,  hardened  old  sinner 
that  he  was,  had  made  him  a  better  man. 

At  the  Biilow  recital  her  singing  of  some  German  songs 
by  Schubert  and  Schumann,  I  think,  was  received  with 
such  enthusiastic  applause  that  she  gave  an  encore,  a 
rather  trivial  song  by  Franz  Abt.  When  Biilow,  in  his 
dressing-room,  heard  this  “desecration”  of  a  programme 


76 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


composed  of  works  of  great  masters  only,  his  rage  knew 
no  bounds,  and  when  he  came  out  on  the  stage  to  con¬ 
tinue  his  own  programme,  he  deliberately  took  out  his 
handkerchief  and  carefully  wiped  the  keys  of  the  piano 
up  and  down  in  a  noisy  glissando  scale  and  then  began  to 
improvise  on  the  recitative  from  Beethoven’s  Ninth 
Symphony,  “O  friends,  not  these  tones.  .  .  .” 

Another  time  he  gave  a  chamber-music  concert  with 
my  father  and  they  played,  among  other  things,  the 
“Kreutzer  Sonata”  of  Beethoven.  Just  before  going 
on  the  stage  he  turned  to  my  father  and  said: 

“Let  us  play  it  by  heart.” 

“With  pleasure,”  answered  my  father  and  laid  down 
his  music. 

“No,  no,”  said  Billow,  “take  it  on  the  stage  with  you.” 

After  they  had  taken  their  places  on  the  stage  Biilow 
ostentatiously  rose,  took  my  father’s  music  from  the 
stand  and  his  own  from  the  piano  and  laid  them  both 
under  the  piano. 

His  memory,  not  only  for  music,  but  for  all  things  that 
interested  him,  was  prodigious  and  to  me  uncanny.  But 
it  was,  after  all,  human  and  not  infallible,  and  on  this 
occasion  he  did  lose  his  place  in  the  last  movement  of  the 
sonata  and  my  father  had  to  improvise  with  him  for  a  few 
bars  until,  with  quick  ingenuity,  he  found  the  thread 
again. 

I  have  spoken  elsewhere  of  the  terrible  responsibilities 
which  were  placed  upon  my  shoulders  because  of  the  sud¬ 
den  death  of  my  father,  and  as  the  years  went  by  I 
seemed  to  miss  him  more  and  more,  not  only  his  wonderful 
companionship,  but  the  wise  counsel  with  which  he  used 
to  help  me  solve  my  musical  riddles.  I  worked  hard  and 
made  progress,  I  think,  for  my  circle  of  friends  and  fol- 


HANS  VON  BOLOW 


77 


lowers  grew  larger  and  larger.  But  I  knew  no  one  in  this 
country  to  whom  I  could  turn  in  the  same  way  as  to  my 
father,  or  who  would  have  given  me  of  his  wisdom  so 
freely  and  generously  as  he.  SeidI,  my  associate  at  the 
Metropolitan,  was  not  friendly  and  was  completely 
wrapped  up  in  himself,  and  besides,  he  had,  to  my  think¬ 
ing,  only  one  specialty,  the  Wagner  music-dramas.  As 
a  symphonic  conductor  he  was  completely  without  expe¬ 
rience  when  he  first  came  to  America  and  his  interpreta¬ 
tion  of  the  classics  lacked  foundation  and  real  penetra¬ 
tion,  in  spite  of  the  noisy  acclaim  which  a  certain  part 
of  our  public  gave  him  because  of  his  undoubted  genius 
as  a  Wagner  conductor. 

A  lucky  chance  brought  me  a  clipping  from  a  German 
newspaper  announcing  that  Hans  von  Biilow  would 
spend  the  summer  of  1887  in  Frankfort,  where  he  would 
teach  a  class  of  advanced  pianists  and  devote  the  entire 
receipts  toward  building  a  monument  to  his  old  friend, 
Joachim  Raff,  who  had  spent  his  last  years  in  Frankfort 
as  director  of  the  conservatory. 

I  immediately  determined  to  go  to  Germany  and  ask 
Biilow  if,  in  view  of  his  old  friendship  with  my  father  and 
my  need  of  the  help  of  some  great  musician,  he  would  be 
willing  to  let  me  study  with  him  the  interpretation  of  the 
Beethoven  Symphonies  in  especial,  and  such  other  works 
as  it  would  interest  him  to  analyze  for  me. 

Biilow  was  at  that  time  considered  the  foremost  con¬ 
ductor  of  Germany.  He  had  taken  a  little  mediocre 
orchestra  of  fifty,  belonging  to  the  Grand  Duke  of  Mei- 
ningen,  and  through  his  supreme  genius  had  galvanized 
it  into  a  marvellous  instrument.  Under  his  guidance  this 
little  orchestra  had  created  a  sensation  all  over  Germany 
and  Austria  and  a  special  tour  de  force  was  their  playing 


?8 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


of  certain  symphonies  entirely  by  heart  without  any 
music  before  them. 

When  I  arrived  in  Frankfort  I  found  that  Billow  was 
living  at  the  Schwan  Hotel,  and  with  much  trepidation  I 
told  him  what  I  wanted  of  him.  He  seemed  very  much 
touched  and  claimed  that  it  was  the  first  time  in  his  ex¬ 
perience  that  a  musician  who,  as  he  put  it,  “was  already 
prominent  in  opera,  symphony,  and  oratorio”  thought 
he  could  learn  anything  from  him.  In  the  warmest,  I 
may  say  most  affectionate  terms,  he  promised  me  every 
possible  help  and  advised  me  to  take  rooms  in  the  same 
hotel.  This  I  did,  and  I  can  truthfully  say  that  the 
entire  summer  during  which  I  was  with  him  in  closest 
companionship,  not  only  in  his  rooms  and  during  the 
lesson  hours  for  the  pianists,  many  of  which  I  also  at¬ 
tended,  but  on  long  walks  to  the  museums,  the  parks, 
and  the  suburbs  of  Frankfort,  his  almost  paternal  kindli¬ 
ness,  his  wisdom,  and  his  comments  on  things  artistic, 
literary,  political,  and  personal  were  a  revelation  to  me. 
So  many  stories  were  current  about  his  biting  comments 
and  brusque  behavior  toward  people  who  excited  his 
enmity,  that  I  was  amazed  to  find  him  throughout  so 
companionable  and  so  gentle  in  all  his  relations  toward 
me.  He  had  a  heart  most  tender  and  sensitive,  but 
life  had  dealt  this  idealist  so  many  hard  knocks  that  he 
incased  his  heart  in  a  shell  with  which  to  protect  it  from 
further  onslaughts. 

He  went  through  all  Beethoven’s  nine  symphonies 
with  me,  bar  by  bar,  phrase  by  phrase,  and  I  still  have 
the  scores  in  which  he  made  certain  notations  of  phrasing 
or  illustrated  changes  in  dynamics  of  certain  instru¬ 
ments  in  order  to  bring  out  the  undoubted  intentions  of 
Beethoven  more  clearly.  He  virtually  analyzed  the  sym- 


HANS  VON  BULOW 


79 


phonies  for  me  in  the  same  way  as  in  his  edition  of  the 
piano  sonatas,  and  at  the  close  of  our  three  months  to¬ 
gether  he  gave  me  a  copy  of  his  own  score  of  the  Ninth 
Symphony  with  all  his  own  annotations,  many  of  which 
were  based  on  the  analysis  made  by  Wagner  during  his 
historic  performance  of  that  work  at  the  corner-stone 
laying  of  the  Bayreuth  Fest-Spielhaus. 

During  these  three  months  of  intensive  study  I  re¬ 
ceived  so  much  from  him  that  was  new  to  me,  such  a 
wealth  of  ideas  regarding  interpretation  and  the  tech¬ 
nic  of  the  conductor’s  art,  that  it  took  me  years  to  di¬ 
gest  it  properly  and  to  learn  how,  instead  of  merely  copy¬ 
ing  slavishly,  I  could  make  it  my  own  and  accept  or  re¬ 
ject  parts  of  it,  according  to  the  methods  of  analysis 
taught  me  by  him. 

During  our  stay  in  Frankfort  a  little  Prince  of  Hesse, 
whose  mother,  the  Landgravine,  was  a  “Royal  Highness,” 
being  a  niece  of  the  old  Emperor  William,  invited  von 
Blilow  to  give  a  Brahms  recital  at  his  palace.  Biilow 
immediately  insisted  that  I,  too,  must  be  invited,  which 
accordingly  I  was.  When  I  accompanied  him  he  intro¬ 
duced  me  to  the  various  exalted  personages  assembled, 
and  the  Landgravine  asked  me  if  I  were  not  “the  son  of 
the  great  Doctor  Damrosch.”  I  politely  answered: 
“Yes,  your  Royal  Highness.” 

“Was  he  not  a  friend  of  Rubinstein?”  she  continued. 
“Yes.” 

“He  played  the  viola,  did  he  not?” 

I  said:  “No,  your  Royal  Highness,  the  violin.” 

“No,”  she  said,  “the  viola.” 

This  taught  me  that  royalty  must  never  be  contra¬ 
dicted,  even  if  they  know  “facts”  about  your  own  father 
of  which  you  are  not  aware. 


8o 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


The  Prince  of  Hesse  was  blind  and  thought  he  had  a 
gift  for  music,  in  fact  he  “composed”  string  quartets 
which,  I  presume,  he  more  or  less  “dictated”  to  the  court 
musician  of  his  little  princely  household. 

Just  before  the  supper  the  Prince  came  up  to  Biilow 
with  a  huge  laurel  wreath,  which  enraged  Biilow  very 
much.  He  always  called  them  “vegetables  of  Fame,” 
and  he  immediately  shouted:  “  Is  there  no  bust  of  Brahms 
here?”  but  as  there  was  none,  he  laid  the  wreath  on  the 
piano. 

During  the  very  good  supper  which  was  served  to  their 
Royal  Highnesses  and  von  Biilow  in  one  room  and  to  the 
other  guests  in  another,  I  found  to  my  amazement  that 
the  blind  Prince  was  led  to  my  chair  holding  a  champagne 
glass  in  his  hand  with  which  to  toast  me  specially,  “the 
American  musician  and  conductor,”  and  two  days  later 
the  Prince  and  his  gentleman  in  waiting  formally  called 
on  me  at  my  hotel.  An  hour  later  the  gentleman  in 
waiting  returned  to  inform  me  that  the  Prince  would 
like  to  have  me  accept  the  position  of  musician  in  his 
household  with  “twelve  hundred  Thalers  a  year  and  free 
board  at  the  palace.”  I  had  to  explain  to  him  ever  so 
politely  and  gratefully  that  I  was  then  conductor  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  the  New  York  Symphony 
Society,  and  the  New  York  Oratorio  Society,  and  that 
with  high  appreciation  of  this  offer,  I  could  not  possibly 
give  up  these  positions  and  my  American  career  to  come 
to  Germany. 

Biilow,  when  I  told  him  of  it,  burst  into  loud  guffaws 
of  delighted  laughter. 

Biilow  was  in  wretched  health  during  the  entire  sum¬ 
mer,  suffering  from  headaches,  sleeplessness,  and  general 
nervous  collapse,  but  with  an  iron  will  he  went  through 


HANS  VON  BOLOW 


81 


the  summer’s  programme,  accepting  no  financial  recom¬ 
pense  for  himself,  solely  to  help  gather  money  through  his 
classes  toward  the  completion  of  the  Raff  monument. 

I  remember  one  night  returning  to  the  hotel  after  the 
opera,  and  as  I  passed  the  door  of  his  room  to  get  to  mine, 
which  was  on  the  same  floor,  I  heard  such  loud  and  con¬ 
tinued  sobbing  that  I  opened  his  door,  after  receiving  no 
response  to  my  knocking.  I  found  him  in  his  night¬ 
clothes,  kneeling  before  his  bed,  his  head  buried  in  the 
mattress  and  sobbing  so  bitterly  that  it  was  heart¬ 
breaking.  I  rushed  over  to  him,  thinking  that  perhaps 
he  was  very  ill,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  quiet 
him.  He  kept  reiterating  that  life  was  over  for  him, 
that  he  wanted  to  die,  and  it  was  only  by  continually 
telling  him  how  much  we  all  adored  him  and  what  his 
friendship  meant  for  us  that  I  was  able  gradually  to 
quiet  him  and  to  put  him  to  bed,  where  I  sat  holding 
his  hands  until  early  morning  when  he  finally  went  to 
sleep. 

Weak  and  ill  though  he  was  after  the  summer’s  ardu¬ 
ous  work,  he  had  promised  the  University  of  Marburg 
to  give  them  two  of  his  famous  Beethoven  recitals,  and 
as  his  friend  Steyl,  the  music  publisher,  and  I  were  wor¬ 
ried  about  his  condition  we  decided  to  accompany  him 
in  order  to  look  after  him.  The  arrangements  for  the 
concerts  which  were  to  be  held  in  the  afternoon  in  the 
aula  of  the  venerable  university  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  professor  of  Greek,  a  typical  old  absent-minded  gen¬ 
tleman  who  seemed  overcome  with  the  honor  of  having  a 
visit  from  the  great  von  Biilow  and  who  also  was  nervously 
afraid  of  this  brusque  little  man.  I  was  worried  over 
the  whole  affair.  Biilow  had  been  very  weak  all  morning 
and  Steyl  and  I  wanted  him  to  cancel  the  recital,  but  he 


82 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


would  not  hear  of  it  and  bravely  went  on  the  stage  to 
begin  his  programme. 

Unfortunately,  owing  to  the  summer  heat,  the  windows 
of  the  aula  were  open  wide,  and  during  the  music  the  cries 
of  the  children  playing  below,  the  rumbling  of  carts  over 
the  rough  pavements  of  the  mediaeval  streets,  came  up 
in  constant  clangor. 

Biilow  began,  faltered,  began  again  and  stopped — ran 
from  the  stage  and  returned  to  begin  again.  But  it  was 
no  use.  The  noise  continued  and  the  recital  had  to  be 
called  off,  and  after  a  nervous  crisis  accompanied  by 
great  weeping,  we  got  him  back  to  the  hotel  and  to  bed, 
Biilow  heaping  curses  on  the  little  professor  on  whom  he 
blamed  everything,  the  glaring  sunlight,  the  cries  of  the 
playing  children,  and  the  noise  of  the  carts.  The  recital 
for  the  following  day  was,  of  course,  cancelled,  and  we 
arranged  everything  for  taking  Biilow  back  to  Frankfort. 

In  the  morning  when  I  called  at  his  rooms  I  found  him 
punctiliously  attired  in  his  frock  coat,  high  silk  hat,  and 
brown  glace  gloves,  and  in  answer  to  my  evidently  aston¬ 
ished  gaze,  he  said:  “We  must  not  leave  without  paying 
our  farewell  call  of  ceremony  on  the  Greek  professor.” 
I  trembled  at  the  outcome,  but  a  carriage  with  two  horses 
and  a  liveried  coachman  was  already  waiting  in  the  court¬ 
yard  of  the  hotel  to  take  us  up  the  hill  to  the  old  mediae¬ 
val  tower  of  the  university  in  which  the  professor  lived. 

We  were  ushered  into  a  wonderful  circular  library,  the 
books  covering  the  entire  inner  wall  of  the  tower,  and 
while  we  were  waiting  for  the  professor,  Biilow  ran 
around  the  room  like  a  dog  on  the  scent,  examining  the 
titles  of  the  various  books  on  the  shelves.  Suddenly  he 
pounced  on  one,  pulled  it  out  and  began  to  turn  the  leaves 
quickly  until  he  got  to  a  certain  page  at  which  he  held 


HANS  VON  BULOW 


83 


the  book  open  just  as  the  old  professor  entered,  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  I  was  rather  apprehensive  of  the 
meeting  between  the  two  men,  but  to  my  astonishment, 
Biilow  advanced,  book  in  hand,  and  with  a  low  bow 
handed  it  silently  to  the  gentle  amateur  impresario, 
pointing  to  a  certain  place  on  the  opened  page.  The  pro¬ 
fessor  read  it,  blushed,  and  looked  with  a  kind  of  dumb 
apology  at  von  Biilow,  who  then  took  up  his  hat  and, 
with  another  low  bow,  left  the  room,  followed  by  me,  still 
completely  mystified  by  this  silent  ceremonial,  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  which  I  could  not  understand. 

During  the  drive  back  to  the  hotel,  Biilow  chirped  up 
considerably.  Now  and  then  he  chuckled  and  finally, 
as  if  the  joke  were  too  good  to  keep,  he  turned  toward 
me  and  said: 

“Do  you  know  what  quotation  I  gave  to  the  Greek 
professor?  It  was  from  one  of  the  Greek  philosophers 
to  the  effect  that  ‘it  is  not  wise  for  a  man  of  learning  to 
mix  himself  up  in  the  practical  affairs  of  life.’  ” 

Perhaps  some  learned  reader  of  this  may  be  able  to  tell 
me  who  the  Greek  author  was.  Biilow  never  told  me. 

On  our  long  walks  Biilow  would  often  reminisce  about 
the  past  and  would  tell  me  enough  stories  to  fill  a  book. 
Two  of  them  I  shall  tell  here. 

Biilow  was  spending  a  winter  in  Florence  and  was 
invited  to  conduct  a  performance  of  Beethoven’s  Ninth 
Symphony  with  the  local  orchestra.  In  those  days 
Italy  had  literally  no  symphonic  orchestras,  and  the  play¬ 
ers,  recruited  from  the  opera-houses,  had  but  little  routine 
for  concert  music  of  symphonic  importance.  The  men 
were  willing  and  eager,  but  even  such  a  routined  conductor 
as  Biilow  found  it  difficult  to  make  them  understand 
certain  rhythmic  subtleties  in  this  most  intricate  of  all 


84 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Beethoven’s  works.  In  the  scherzo  there  comes  a  place 
where  the  kettledrum  has  to  enter  rudely  with  a  repeti¬ 
tion  of  the  first  bar  of  the  main  theme: 


— 

fT - 

"0~7 - 

"0" - 

—0" - 1 

p - 

*  1 

H - — — — H 

L  1  *  * - 1 

This  rhythm  the  kettledrum  player  simply  could  not 
grasp,  no  matter  how  patiently  Biilow  endeavored  to 
instil  it.  He  tried  it  slow,  he  tried  it  fast.  Biilow  got 
more  and  more  excited  and  irritable,  and  finally,  as  a 
last  resort,  he  fairly  shouted  to  him  on  the  rhythm  of  this 
theme  the  Italian  word  for  kettledrum.  At  the  top  of 
his  voice  rose  the  word: 

‘  ‘  T  y  m — pan — y !  T  y  m — pan — y !  ’  * 

A  delighted  smile  broke  over  the  face  of  the  kettle¬ 
drum  player. 

“Ah,  capisco,  capisco,”  he  shouted,  and  immediately 
proceeded  to  put  his  newly  won  knowledge  to  the  practical 
proof. 

Biilow  told  me  that  at  one  time  he  had  adopted  the 
habit  of  jotting  down  any  strange  or  incongruous  names 
that  he  found  on  the  signs  of  shops  in  the  various  cities 
of  the  various  countries  that  he  visited.  In  a  small  little 
German  town  he  found  over  a  greengrocery,  the  name  of 
“Seidenschwanz.”  This  appealed  to  him  and  he  tucked 
it  away  in  his  memory,  determined  to  find  a  given  name  to 
add  that  would,  by  its  very  contrast,  fit  it.  For  months 
he  cudgelled  his  brains,  but  in  vain,  until  one  night  in 
Venice  he  jumped  up  from  his  bed,  shouting:  “I  have  it. 
Caligula  Seidenschwanz !”  The  name  of  the  most  cruel 
of  Roman  Emperors  coupled  with  that  of  the  little  green¬ 
grocer  ! 


HANS  VON  BOLOW 


85 


Next  morning  he  proceeded  to  an  engraver  and  had 
visiting  cards  printed  bearing  the  mysterious  name  of: 


Caligula  Seidenschwanz. 


Shortly  after,  whenever  Doctor  Hans  von  Billow  paid  a 
call  on  any  one,  instead  of  presenting  his  own  card,  he 
left  that  of  Herr  Seidenschwanz,  thereby  completely 
mystifying  his  friends. 

I  told  this  story  years  after  while  dining  at  the  house 
of  my  dear  friends,  May  Callender  and  Caro  de  Forest. 
Lilli  Lehmann  was  one  of  the  guests,  and  when  I  finished 
she  jumped  up  and  said: 

“Walter,  that  is  a  very  remarkable  story,  but  it  is  abso¬ 
lutely  true,  as  I  happen  to  know.  I  was  coloratura  so¬ 
prano  at  the  Berlin  Royal  Opera  at  the  time  when  Biilow 
paid  us  a  visit  one  night  when  we  performed  Meyer¬ 
beer’s  ‘Prophete.’  He  was  so  disgusted  with  the  per¬ 
formance  that  he  wrote  one  of  his  indignant  and  cynical 
letters  to  a  Berlin  paper,  in  which  he  compared  the  Royal 
Opera  to  a  circus,  and  then  added  insult  to  injury  by 
apologizing  to  Herr  Renz,  owner  of  the  greatest  circus  in 
Germany,  saying  that  he  meant  no  insult  to  him,  as  he 
had  always  been  a  great  admirer  of  the  Circus  Renz. 
This  letter  aroused  the  old  intendant,  Baron  von  Hulsen, 
to  such  fury  that  he  forbade  Biilow  further  entrance  into 
the  opera-house  and  at  the  same  time  induced  the  old 


86 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Emperor  to  withdraw  the  title  of  ‘  Pianist  to  His  Majesty, 
the  King  of  Prussia’  from  von  Biilow.” 

Lilli  Lehmann  then  continued  to  narrate  that  the 
morning  after  the  performance  she  received  a  large  basket 
of  flowers  in  which  a  card  had  been  tucked,  on  which  was 
written  “To  the  only  bright  spot  in  yesterday’s  per¬ 
formance.  In  admiration,  Caligula  Seidenschwanz .” 

Until  that  evening,  when  I  explained  the  origin  of  the 
name,  Lilli  Lehmann  had  not  known  that  the  flowers  had 
been  sent  her  by  von  Biilow. 

At  the  close  of  the  summer  session  Biilow  invited  me  to 
go  with  him  to  the  Cologne  Musical  Festival.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  written  to  Brahms  about  me  and  wanted 
me  to  meet  him,  and  I  would  also  hear  a  fine  performance 
of  the  Brahms  “Requiem.”  Needless  to  say  I  jumped 
at  such  an  opportunity. 

My  father,  who  with  that  wonderful  liberal  attitude  of 
his  did  not  share  the  narrow  attitude  of  other  Wagne- 
rians  who  hated  Brahms,  had  been  among  the  first  to 
introduce  his  music  in  America  and  had  given  the  first 
performance  of  the  Brahms  Symphony  No.  i  in  C  minor 
in  America.  Billow  had  become  a  similar  propagandist 
for  Brahms  in  Germany.  I  considered  him  the  last 
great  composer  of  modern  times,  doubly  interesting  be¬ 
cause  the  great  genius  of  Wagner,  whom  he  admired 
greatly,  left  him  untouched  as  far  as  his  own  creative 
work  was  concerned,  and  he  is,  perhaps,  the  only  great 
modern  composer  whose  works  can  show  no  influence  of 
the  Wagnerian  school.  To  conduct  his  symphonies  is  to 
me  still  one  of  the  greatest  joys  of  the  winter,  and  I  con¬ 
tinue  to  marvel  how  little  the  years  have  aged  them  and 
how  noble  in  conception  and  rich  in  subtleties  of  feeling 
they  continue  to  express  in  an  unbroken  line  the  highest 
ideals  of  the  Beethoven  symphonies. 


HANS  VON  BOLOW 


87 


In  the  hurly-burly  of  a  festival,  I  had  but  little  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  see  much  of  Brahms,  who  was  there  only  a  very 
few  days,  and  I  was  too  young  and  unimportant  to  claim 
any  attention  from  him;  but  I  was  grateful  to  Biilow 
for  the  opportunity  of  meeting  him,  and  can  still  see  his 
wonderful  and  kindly  eye  turned  on  me  as  Biilow  told 
him  some  nice  things  about  me. 

During  our  stay  in  Cologne  I  had  an  experience  so 
curious,  so  extraordinary,  that  I  must  especially  assure 
my  readers  that  it  is  true  in  every  particular. 

One  morning  Biilow  announced  to  me  that  he  was  go¬ 
ing  to  cross  the  river  in  the  afternoon  to  visit  the  widow  of 

an  old  friend  of  his,  Madame  B - ,  who  lived  in  a  villa 

in  Deutz.  He  asked  me  to  accompany  him,  and  we  ac¬ 
cordingly  called  on  a  rather  attractive  young  widow,  at¬ 
tired  in  the  deepest  mourning,  who  welcomed  us  very 
graciously.  Her  husband,  a  Belgian  pianist  of  distinc¬ 
tion,  had  been  professor  of  piano  at  the  Imperial  Conserva¬ 
tory  in  St.  Petersburg  and  had  there  married  a  young 
Russian  pupil  of  his. 

After  chatting  awhile,  she  proposed  that  we  go  into 
the  garden  for  a  cup  of  tea,  and  we  followed  her,  accord¬ 
ingly,  to  a  small  stone  building  in  the  middle  of  the  garden 
that  looked  like  a  chapel,  but  which,  to  my  horror,  I  dis¬ 
covered,  as  we  entered,  to  be  a  mausoleum.  In  the  centre 
stood  a  sarcophagus  on  the  top  of  which  reposed  a  coffin, 
with  a  glass  top,  in  which  lay  the  body  of  B - !  A  foot¬ 

man  in  livery  followed  us  with  a  samovar  and  the  teacups. 

It  seems  that  the  lady  had  thus  endeavored  to  demon¬ 
strate  her  love  for  her  departed  husband.  I  confess  that 
I  became  almost  ill  and  hurriedly  left  the  mausoleum  to 
smell  the  roses  in  the  garden,  but  Billow  punctiliously 
and  courageously  stuck  it  out  and  had  his  cup  of  tea 
under  these  unique  conditions. 


88 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Many  years  after  I  heard  through  Mrs.  Franz  Rummel, 

whose  husband  had  been  a  favorite  pupil  of  B - ,  that 

his  widow  was  again  happily  married  and  that  B - had 

been  properly  buried  underground. 

In  1889  I  induced  Mr.  Leo  Goldmark,  brother  of  the 
Viennese  composer,  who  was  interested  in  music  and  the 
musical  affairs  of  New  York,  to  bring  von  Biilow  to  Amer¬ 
ica  for  another  visit,  and  more  especially  to  give  his 
Beethoven  sonata  cycle. 

Biilow  brought  his  second  wife  with  him  and  the  visit 
was  a  great  success  in  every  way.  She  had  been  a  young 
actress  of  talent  at  the  Meiningen  Court  Theatre  and  he 
had  married  her  while  he  was  conductor  of  the  orchestra 
there. 

The  Beethoven  recitals  were  given  at  the  Broadway 
Theatre  which  was  crowded  to  the  doors,  and  press  and 
public  greeted  the  old  master  with  such  friendly  en¬ 
thusiasm  that  he  was  very  much  touched  and  became 
very  enthusiastic  about  America.  He  also  conducted  my 
orchestra  in  a  memorable  concert  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  in  which  he  demonstrated  his  marvellous 
powers  as  a  conductor.  Among  the  works  on  the  pro¬ 
gramme  was  the  “Tragic  Overture”  by  Brahms.  Just 
before  beginning  the  rehearsal  of  this  he  called  out  to 
the  orchestra  librarian,  Russell,  by  name:  “Where  is 
the  contrabassoon?  Why  is  there  no  contrabassoon  en- 
gaged?” 

In  vain  were  Russell’s  protests  that  he  had  not  been 
told  to  engage  a  contrabassoon,  but  suddenly  Billow’s 
anger  subsided  and  he  began  the  rehearsal.  During  it, 
as  was  his  custom,  he  conducted  without  any  orchestral 
score  before  him.  His  memory  of  what  the  individual 
instruments  had  to  play  was  indeed  remarkable,  although 


HANS  VON  BOLOW 


89 


I  always  felt  that  he  enjoyed  showing  it  off  a  little  at  re¬ 
hearsals.  After  the  rehearsal  was  over  he  called  Russell 
to  his  side  and,  slipping  him  a  five-dollar  bill,  whispered: 
“Do  not  say  anything;  it  was  my  mistake,  there  is  no 
contrabassoon  in  the  Brahms  Overture.” 


IX 


ANDREW  CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE 

FAMILY 

In  the  spring  of  1887  I  sailed  for  Europe  to  spend  the 
summer  in  study  with  Hans  von  Biilow,  and  on  the 
steamer  I  met  Andrew  Carnegie  and  his  young  wife 
Louise.  They  were  on  their  wedding  trip  and  on  their 
way  to  Scotland,  where  Mr.  Carnegie  had  rented  “Kil- 
graston,”  a  lovely  old  place  near  Perth.  He  had  known 
my  father  and  had  invited  him  a  few  years  before  to  a 
dinner  given  in  honor  of  Matthew  Arnold  who  had  been 
in  America  on  a  lecture  tour.  Mr.  Carnegie  spoke  of  my 
father  with  great  affection  and  respect,  and  expressed  his 
delight  that  I  had  taken  up  my  father’s  work.  He  in¬ 
vited  me  to  come  for  a  visit  to  Scotland  after  my  studies 
with  von  Biilow  were  over. 

In  the  late  summer,  I  accordingly  sailed  in  a  small 
steamer  from  Hamburg  to  Leith  and  was  received  with 
great  friendliness  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carnegie  at  Kil- 
graston.  Among  their  guests  were  James  G.  Blaine,  his 
wife,  and  two  of  their  daughters.  My  acquaintance 
with  this  remarkable  family  soon  ripened  very  fortunately 
for  me  into  close  friendship  and  resulted  finally  in  my 
marriage  to  Margaret,  one  of  the  daughters — but  I  am 
progressing  too  fast. 

Mr.  Blaine  had  been  defeated  for  the  presidency  in 
1884.  Since  that  time  he  had  been  occupied  in  com¬ 
pleting  his  book  “  Twenty  Years  of  Congress,”  and  in 

90 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  91 


the  spring  of  1887  he  and  his  family  were  taking  a  year’s 
holiday  abroad. 

Because  of  my  youth  and  the  exigencies  of  my  pro¬ 
fession,  most  of  my  life  had  been  spent  among  musicians 
and  those  interested  in  music.  This  was  the  first  time 
that  I  came  into  personal  relations  with  a  great  states¬ 
man,  at  that  time  the  foremost  in  our  country,  and  I 
found  to  my  amazement  that,  although  an  atmosphere  of 
great  dignity  surrounded  him,  he  was  absolutely  simple 
and  gentle  in  his  contact  with  other  people. 

His  wife,  a  woman  of  singular  strength  of  character, 
with  a  highly  original  mind  and  an  absolute  devotion  to 
her  husband  and  his  ambitions,  was  in  many  ways  as 
remarkable  as  he.  Her  knowledge  of  and  interest  in 
literature — poetry,  history,  memoirs — was  very  compre¬ 
hensive,  and  the  discussions  thereon,  which  were  con¬ 
stant  at  Mr.  Carnegie’s  table,  interested  me  immensely 
and  opened  new  worlds  to  me. 

The  two  daughters,  Margaret  and  Harriet,  high-spirited 
and  sharing  the  interests  of  their  parents,  gave  them  a 
devotion  and  love  so  partisan  and  intense  in  its  character 
that  it  seemed  at  first  to  attract  me  toward  them  almost 
more  than  anything  else.  As  a  boy  I  had  suffered  agonies 
at  seeing  my  father  misunderstood  and  often  attacked  by 
men  not  worthy  to  tie  his  shoe-strings,  and  here  I  found 
similar  conditions  but  on  a  much  greater  scale,  as  Mr. 
Blaine’s  career  had  been  national  and  his  triumphs  and 
defeats  had  enlisted  the  sympathies  or  execrations  of 
millions  of  American  citizens.  Music  had  entered  but 
little  into  the  lives  of  the  Blaine  family — although  since 
then  my  wife  has  become  enthusiastically  devoted  to  it — 
and  I  was  really  delighted  that  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
I  was  compelled  to  establish  relations  from  a  purely 


92 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


human  standpoint  and  without  the  assistance  of  any  of 
the  “romantic  glamour”  of  my  profession.  At  this  time, 
however,  I  got  but  a  glimpse  of  the  Blaines,  as  they 
stayed  only  a  week  after  my  arrival,  but  there  were 
delightful  rumors  of  a  four-weeks  coaching  trip  from 
London  to  Scotland  which  Mr.  Carnegie  was  planning 
for  the  following  summer  and  for  which  we  were  all  to 
be  invited. 

Mr.  Carnegie  was  at  that  time  a  generous  supporter  of 
Gladstone  and  the  Liberal  Party,  and  several  of  its  lead¬ 
ers  came  to  Kilgraston  to  visit  him,  among  them  John 
Morley,  who  impressed  me  immensely  and  for  whom  at 
his  own  and  the  Carnegies’  request,  I  played  excerpts 
every  evening  from  Wagner’s  “Nibelungen  Trilogy,”  ex¬ 
plaining  the  music  and  the  text,  as  Mr.  Morley  had  never 
heard  the  music  before.  I  was  very  proud  of  being  able 
to  interest  so  fine  a  mind  as  his  in  Wagner’s  music,  and 
like  to  think  that  my  Wagner  lecture  recitals,  which  in 
later  years  I  gave  all  over  America,  had  their  origin  in 
these  informal  talks  in  Scotland  for  Morley  and  the 
Carnegies. 

Incidentally,  Mr.  Carnegie  became  more  and  more 
interested  in  the  New  York  Symphony  and  Oratorio  So¬ 
cieties  and  consented  to  become  their  president  and  chief 
financial  supporter.  The  more  intricate  symphonic  works 
did  not  appeal  to  him,  but  he  had  a  natural  and  naive 
love  for  music.  Because  of  his  study  and  intimate  knowl¬ 
edge  of  Scotch  literature,  poetry  especially,  together  with 
an  intense  affection  for  the  country  of  his  birth,  he  par¬ 
ticularly  loved  the  folk-songs  of  Scotland,  and  in  a  high, 
quavering,  and  somewhat  uncertain  voice  could  sing 
literally  dozens  of  them  from  memory.  To  me  these 
folk-songs  were  a  revelation,  and  I  still  think  that  they 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  93 


have  a  variety  and  charm  beyond  those  of  any  other 
race. 

I  even  adore  the  Scotch  bagpipes  and  am  almost  in 
sympathy  with  the  Scotsman  who  says  that  his  idea  of 
heaven  is  “twenty  bagpipers  a’  playin’  t’gither  in  a  sma5 
room  and  each  one  playing  a  different  tune.” 

On  our  long  walks  and  fishing  excursions  together,  Mr. 
Carnegie  talked  continuously  and  freely  regarding  his 
many  plans  to  better  the  world  through  liberal  benefac¬ 
tions.  He  had  already  begun  the  founding  of  free  li¬ 
braries  all  over  Great  Britain  and  America,  and  would 
often  tell  me  of  his  own  great  poverty  as  a  child  and  the 
difficulty  of  obtaining  the  books  and  education  which  he 
craved.  His  imagination  would  kindle  at  the  opportuni¬ 
ties  which  his  libraries  would  give  the  youth  of  to-day, 
and  a  constant  optimism  as  to  the  future  of  the  world 
seemed  to  direct  all  his  plans. 

The  poor  salaries  paid  to  our  teaching  profession  would 
especially  arouse  his  ire,  as  he  considered  that  the  entire 
future  of  America  lay  in  the  hands  of  its  teachers  and  that, 
therefore,  the  greatest  minds  of  the  country  should  be 
enlisted  in  the  work  and  suitably  rewarded.  As  the 
reader  knows,  this  conviction  finally  culminated  in  his 
remarkable  and  comprehensive  scheme  of  pensions  to 
college  professors  who  had  served  their  calling  a  certain 
number  of  years. 

As  he  would  unfold  to  me  his  various  dreams  and  plans, 
he  became  really  eloquent.  His  little  hands  would  clinch, 
and  for  a  moment  even  his  fishing-pole  and  a  possible 
trout  at  the  other  end  would  be  forgotten,  especially 
when  he  talked  of  his  greatest  aversion — war — and  of 
its  hideous  uselessness  in  settling  any  disputes. 

As  a  boy  he  had  had  hardly  any  school  education,  but 


94 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


he  had  inherited  the  Scotch  passion  for  books.  He  had 
read  omnivorously  and,  what  is  better  still,  remembered 
what  he  read.  Burns  and  Shakespeare  he  knew  by  heart 
and  could  quote  very  aptly  to  clinch  a  point  in  his  argu¬ 
ments. 

His  sympathy  for  suffering,  especially  that  caused  by 
poverty,  was  very  great  and  expended  itself  in  practical 
help  in  every  direction.  The  hard  struggles  of  his  early 
youth  had  made  him  very  understanding,  and  many  wid¬ 
ows  left  destitute  received  immediate  help  from  him  and 
the  children  were  put  through  school  and  placed  in  busi¬ 
ness  through  his  assistance. 

His  attitude  toward  religion  was  very  curious.  In  those 
days  he  professed  to  be  an  agnostic,  but  he  had  old  Scotch 
prejudices  in  favor  of  a  “  Scotch  Sunday.”  He  despised 
theology  and  yet  was  really  religious,  but  he  did  not  care 
to  define  his  God  or  to  explore  the  mysteries  or  possi¬ 
bilities  of  a  future  life.  His  prejudices  were  as  unyielding 
as  the  pig  iron  which  he  manufactured  at  his  Homestead 
works,  and  no  argument  would  move  him  if  his  mind  was 
made  up. 

While  Mr.  Carnegie  had  a  real  admiration  for  music  in 
its  simpler  forms,  this  never  crystallized  into  as  great 
a  conviction  regarding  its  importance  in  life  as  that 
which  he  had  regarding  the  importance  of  science  or 
literature,  and  though  always  generous  in  its  support, 
his  benefactions  never  became  as  great  as  in  other  direc¬ 
tions.  He  could  understand  that  a  library,  a  school,  or 
a  hospital  could  not  and  should  not  be  self-supporting, 
but  I  could  not  convince  him  that  music  should  fall  into 
the  same  category.  He  always  insisted  that  the  greatest 
patronage  of  music  should  come  from  a  paying  public 
rather  than  from  private  endowment.  He  built  Carnegie 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  95 


Hall  in  order  to  give  New  York  a  proper  home  for  its 
musical  activities,  but  he  did  not  look  upon  this  as  a 
philanthropy,  and  expected  to  have  the  hall  support  itself 
and  give  a  fair  return  upon  the  capital  invested. 

In  the  spring  of  1888  I  again  sailed  for  Europe  with  the 
Carnegies,  and  on  arriving  at  the  Metropole  Hotel  in 
London  we  found  the  rest  of  the  coaching  party  already 
assembled — the  Blaine  family,  Mr.  Henry  Phipps  a  part¬ 
ner  of  Mr.  Carnegie’s,  and  Mrs.  Phipps,  Gail  Hamil¬ 
ton  (Miss  Dodge),  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Blaine’s  well  known 
as  a  writer;  also  a  young  Universalist  clergyman,  Doctor 
Charles  Eaton,  who  was  the  pastor  of  Mrs.  Carnegie’s 
church. 

We  left  the  Hotel  Metropole  June  8,  in  the  morning, 
on  top  of  Mr.  Carnegie’s  four-in-hand.  There  was  a 
great  crowd  of  people  to  see  us  off  and  wish  us  “Bon 
voyage,”  among  them  John  Morley  and  Lord  Rosebery. 
All  the  men  of  our  party  looked  very  sporty  in  high  gray- 
top  hats  which  we  had  hurriedly  acquired  at  a  hatter’s 
in  the  neighborhood  that  morning. 

I  had  been  appointed  treasurer  of  the  tour  by  Mr. 
Carnegie,  “with  no  salary  but  all  the  usual  perquisites,” 
as  he  put  it. 

The  coachman,  a  stout,  good-natured  Scotsman  of 
real  ability,  drove  his  four-in-hand  with  such  skill  and 
care  that  when  we  arrived  in  Invernesshire  four  weeks 
later,  his  horses  were  in  even  better  condition  than  when 
we  started. 

It  was  certainly  an  ideal  way  to  travel,  and  the 
pace  was  leisurely  enough  for  us  to  see  and  enjoy  the 
exquisite  countryside  of  England  and  Scotland.  Every 
night  we  stopped  at  a  different  inn  but  always  carried 
our  lunch  in  hampers,  and  at  noontime  halted  at  some 


96 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


picturesque  nook  by  the  bank  of  a  river  or  on  some  grassy 
meadow  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  enjoyed  our  meal 
in  lazy  fashion. 

The  discussions  between  Mr.  Blaine  and  Mr.  Carnegie  at 
these  picnic  luncheons  were  certainly  fascinating  to  listen 
to,  and  especially  illuminating  to  an  American  musician 
whose  horizon  had  perhaps  been  bounded  too  exclusively 
by  his  own  ambitions  and  the  problems  of  his  own  art. 
Mr.  Blaine  knew  England,  its  history,  and  its  great 
families  far  more  intimately  than  any  Englishman  I 
have  ever  met.  It  is  well  known  that  he  never  forgot 
anything,  and  whenever  we  stopped  either  for  luncheon 
or  at  an  inn  for  the  night,  he  would  immediately  proceed 
to  add  to  his  immense  store  of  knowledge  by  questioning 
the  local  farmers,  field  workers,  or  innkeepers  regarding 
the  economic  or  political  conditions  of  that  part  of  the 
country. 

An  amusing  opera-bouffe  element  of  the  entire  coaching 
trip  was  added  by  the  constant  but  furtive  appearance 
and  disappearance  of  four  American  newspaper  reporters 
who  had  been  sent  by  their  respective  papers  to  “shadow” 
Mr.  Blaine  because  the  Republican  convention  for  the 
presidential  nomination  was  about  to  be  held  in  Chicago, 
and  it  was  eagerly  hoped  that  Mr.  Blaine  would  accept 
the  nomination  again.  He,  and  through  him  we,  of 
course,  knew  that  nothing  was  further  from  his  mind, 
but  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  when  we  would  arrive  at  our 
inn  for  the  night,  these  four  reporters,  having  travelled 
by  train,  would  already  be  there  and  try  directly  or  in¬ 
directly  to  obtain  “inside  information”  regarding  Mr. 
Blaine’s  intentions.  The  reporters  included  Stephen 
Bonsai  for  the  New  York  World  and  Arthur  Brisbane 
for  the  New  York  Sun .  The  latter,  wishing  to  combine 


AT  NOONTIME  WE  HALTED  AT  SOME  PICTURESQUE  NOOK  UNDER  THE  SHADE  OF  THE  TREES 

Reading  from  left:  Margaret  Blaine,  Mrs.  Blaine,  Harriet  Blaine,  Mr.  Carnegie,  Rev.  Charles  Eaton, 

Miss  Dodge  (Gail  Hamilton),  Mr.  Blaine,  Walter  Damrosch,  Mrs.  Henry  Phipps 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  97 


pleasure  with  business,  would  sometimes  scorn  the  train 
and  hire  a  high  dog-cart. 

Our  itinerary  took  in  all  the  cathedral  towns  of  the  east 
coast  of  England.  We  were  bound  by  no  time-tables  and, 
therefore,  had  every  opportunity  to  see  and  study  the 
mighty  Gothic  churches  of  Cambridge,  Ely,  Peterborough, 
York,  and  Durham. 

I  had  agreed  to  conduct  a  concert  in  London  on  the 
19th  of  June,  and  so  very  reluctantly  said  a  temporary 
good-by  to  our  party  at  York.  This  concert  was  given 
by  Ovide  Musin,  an  eminent  young  Belgian  violinist, 
who  wished  to  perform  a  concerto  of  my  father’s  which  he 
had  played  in  New  York  about  eight  years  before  under 
my  father’s  own  direction.  I  had  an  excellent  London 
orchestra  of  seventy-five  players  and  also  gave  Bee¬ 
thoven’s  Seventh  Symphony  and  the  Liszt  Hungarian 
Rhapsody  Number  One.  It  was  my  first  experience  as 
a  conductor  in  England,  and  as  the  concert  passed  off 
very  well  I  was  much  elated,  especially  when,  just  before 
catching  my  train  for  Durham  to  rejoin  the  coaching 
party,  I  read  some  complimentary  criticisms  of  the  con¬ 
cert  in  the  London  Times  and  Telegraph. 

It  was  raining  when  I  left  the  railroad  station  in  Dur¬ 
ham  to  walk  to  the  road  along  which  Mr.  Carnegie’s 
coach  was  to  appear.  I  well  remember  my  thrill  of  joy 
when  I  heard  a  merry  fanfare  played  on  the  coaching 
horn  by  one  of  the  footmen — whom,  by  the  way,  I  always 
envied  for  his  virtuosity  on  this  instrument — and  shortly 
after,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  I  saw  the  coach  appear  with 
everybody  on  top  attired  in  gray  rain-coats  and  waving 
a  friendly  welcome.  My  wife  has  always  insisted  to  my 
children  that  on  this  entire  trip  I  wore  a  double-breasted 
frock  coat  which  had  done  previous  duty  at  my  matinee 


98 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


concerts  in  America,  but  I  think  this  is  a  gross  slander 
and  not  based  on  fact. 

We  crossed  the  border  into  Scotland  and  of  course 
stopped  at  Walter  Scott’s  home  and  also  visited  the  ruins 
of  Linlithgow  Castle,  in  which  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  was 
born.  And  here  the  four  reporters,  who  had  been  as 
constant  as  leeches  and  as  inevitable  as  death  and  the 
taxgatherer,  solemnly  entered  the  ruins  and  gave  Mr. 
Blaine  a  telegram  which  they  had  just  received  announc¬ 
ing  Benjamin  Harrison’s  nomination  at  the  convention. 
As  Mr.  Blaine  had  expected  this  for  weeks,  the  news  did 
not  excite  him  greatly.  He  bade  a  friendly  good-by  to 
the  four  young  sleuth-hounds,  several  of  whom  have 
since  achieved  fame  in  their  profession,  and  we  continued 
our  journey  farther  north  until  we  arrived  at  Mr.  Car¬ 
negie’s  home,  Cluny  Castle,  on  the  evening  of  July  3. 

It  was  bitter  cold  and  the  wind  was  whistling  shrilly 
over  the  Dalwhinny  Moors  as  we  first  caught  sight  of 
Cluny,  but  an  American  flag  was  floating  proudly  over 
its  turrets,  and  inside  warm  fires  and  a  delicious  dinner 
were  awaiting  us. 

Then  began  a  summer  of  delights  for  me.  Mr.  Car¬ 
negie  had  a  piper  who,  according  to  old  Scotch  custom, 
would  walk  around  the  outer  walls  of  the  house  every 
morning  to  awaken  us.  My  room  was  in  the  bachelor 
quarters  and  had  a  little  fireplace  in  which  a  peat  fire 
smouldered  comfortably.  The  smell  of  peat  and  the 
sound  of  the  piper  as  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  my 
window  and  then  again  receded  in  the  distance  are  al¬ 
ways  inseparably  associated  in  my  memory.  In  the 
mornings  I  usually  worked  at  my  studies  in  counterpoint 
and  composition,  but  from  luncheon  on  it  was  nothing 
but  delightful  entertainment  or  listening  with  keenest 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  99 


interest  to  discussions  of  all  kinds — political,  economic, 
poetical.  Miss  Dodge  was  a  most  stimulating  person. 
She  had  a  mind  that  would  accept  nothing  without  anal¬ 
ysis  or  proof,  and  the  verbal  duels  between  her  and  Mr. 
Carnegie  were  fascinating,  for,  although  she  was  not 
Scotch,  she,  as  much  as  Mr.  Carnegie,  typified  the  story 
of  the  two  Scotsmen  who  meet  each  other  and  one  says: 
“Where  are  you  going,  Donald?”  “Oh,  just  doon  to 
the  village  to  contradict  a  wee.” 

Occasionally  I  would  accompany  Mr.  Carnegie  to  some 
lonely  loch  among  the  hills  to  fish  for  trout,  but  I  have 
never  developed  into  a  very  ardent  disciple  of  Izaak 
Walton.  I  used  to  get  more  pleasure  from  lying  on  my 
back  watching  the  marvellous  Scotch  sky  with  its  low- 
hanging  clouds  framing  the  hills  in  their  loving  embrace, 
with  perhaps  now  and  then  just  a  speck  of  blue  shining 
through,  than  from  the  catching  of  the  “finny  monsters.” 
These,  however,  rarely  measured  over  six  inches  in  length, 
although  I  certainly  enjoyed  them  the  following  morn¬ 
ing,  when  we  had  them  for  breakfast,  rolled  in  oatmeal 
flour  and  deliciously  fried. 

In  the  evenings  I  had  to  contribute  my  little  quota 
toward  the  house-party  by  playing  Beethoven  and  Wag¬ 
ner  on  an  excellent  Broadwood  piano. 

During  all  this  time  I  was  amazed  at  the  extreme  sim¬ 
plicity  and  gentleness  which  characterized  Mr.  Blaine’s 
demeanor  toward  all  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 
Here  was  a  man  who  at  that  time  was  the  most  loved 
and  the  most  execrated  American,  and  yet  he  had  in  him 
absolutely  nothing  of  the  “prima  donna”  manner  of  many 
of  those  in  my  profession  who  have  achieved  fame.  His 
dignity,  however,  was  innate  and  unconscious,  and  during 
the  many  years  that  I  knew  him  and  knew  him  intimately 


100 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


I  have  never  seen  any  one  who  dared  to  presume  on  his 
simplicity  and  general  cordiality  of  manner  by  undue 
familiarity.  His  power  of  abstraction  from  his  surround¬ 
ings  was  remarkable.  He  enjoyed  working  in  the  room 
in  which  his  family  were  talking,  laughing,  and  disputing 
on  all  manner  of  subjects,  while  he  would  sit  in  a  corner 
concentrated  on  some  problem  of  his  own  and  work  it 
out,  absolutely  oblivious  to  what  was  going  on  about 
him. 

The  Blaine  family  left  Cluny  all  too  soon,  and  not 
only  I,  but  the  entire  household  felt  their  absence 
keenly. 

Other  guests  followed,  among  them  John  Morley,  with 
whom  I  went  on  long  and  to  me  very  interesting  walks. 
He  seemed  a  very  lonely  and  perhaps  a  disappointed 
man.  He  was  married,  but  childless,  and  told  me  once 
that  the  great  regret  of  his  life  was  that  he  had  no  son, 
as  he  would  like  to  have  brought  him  up  and  educated 
him  according  to  a  theory  all  his  own  as  to  what  an 
Englishman’s  training  really  should  be.  How  many  men 
have  had  such  dreams  and  how  few,  if  any,  can  really 
control  the  future  of  their  children ! 

In  March,  1889,  Benjamin  Harrison  was  inaugurated 
President  and  Mr.  Blaine  became  his  secretary  of  state. 

I  was,  as  usual,  terribly  busy  that  winter  with  the  opera, 
concerts,  and  Wagner  lecture  recitals,  and  there  were 
times  when  Washington  seemed  very  far  away,  but 
Margaret  Blaine  had  good  friends  in  New  York  whom 
she  visited  occasionally,  also  a  sister,  the  wife  of  Colonel 
Coppinger  of  the  United  States  army,  who  was  stationed 
at  Governor’s  Island  in  New  York  harbor.  Whenever 
she  stayed  with  Mrs.  Coppinger  I  was  a  very  frequent 
passenger  on  the  little  ferry-boat  which  seemed  to  me 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  ioi 


maintained  by  our  beneficent  War  Department  for  the 
sole  purpose  of  enabling  young  men  like  myself  to  reach 
this  picturesque  though  antiquated  military  fortress. 

Mr.  Carnegie  was  absolutely  unconscious  of  my  aspira¬ 
tions  regarding  Margaret  Blaine,  and  the  following  sum¬ 
mer  he  suggested  a  visit  to  Bar  Harbor,  where  Mr.  Blaine 
had  built  a  summer  home.  I  accepted  with  an  alacrity 
which  he  mistook  as  springing  only  from  the  same  source 
as  his  own  desire  to  see  again  the  friends  who  had  con¬ 
tributed  so  much  toward  the  delights  of  the  coaching 
trip  and  Cluny  Castle.  When  I  afterward  told  him  of 
my  hopes  and  that  they  had  received  some  encouragement 
during  our  Bar  Harbor  visit,  he  was  very  much  put  out 
and  vowed  that  if  he  had  ever  suspected  anything  of  the 
kind  he  would  never  have  taken  me  with  him.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  hoped  I  would  not  think  of  marriage  for 
many  years,  but  would  remain  as  a  kind  of  semi-attached 
musical  member  of  his  household,  which  at  that  time  con¬ 
sisted  only  of  himself  and  his  wife.  Of  course  I  listened 
to  his  many  arguments  absolutely  unconvinced,  and  obsti¬ 
nate  though  he  always  was,  he  found  his  equal  in  me.  I 
must  confess,  however,  that  when  he  saw  how  much  in 
earnest  I  was,  he  not  only  completely  receded  from  his 
position,  but  accepted  my  engagement  and  marriage  with 
absolute  good  humor  and  approval. 

My  engagement  to  Margaret  Blaine  was  announced  in 
October  of  the  following  year  at  the  wedding  of  her 
brother,  Emmons,  to  Anita  McCormick,  of  Chicago. 

Mr.  Blaine  had  bought  the  old  Seward  mansion  on 
Lafayette  Square,  very  near  the  White  House,  and  Mrs. 
Blaine,  who  had  a  remarkable  flair  for  harmonious  house 
furnishings  and  decorations,  proceeded  to  make  it  into 
a  dignified  and  charming  house,  the  special  feature  of 


102 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


which  was  a  large  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor,  created 
by  changing  two  rooms  into  one. 

I  have  told  elsewhere  how  in  those  days  I  was  compelled, 
because  of  my  youth,  to  confine  myself  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  to  the  conducting  of  such  operas  as  “Le  Prophete,” 
“La  Juive,”  and  “Trovatore.”  SeidI,  my  older  col¬ 
league,  completely  monopolized  the  Wagner  operas, 
which  I  was  of  course  particularly  anxious  to  conduct. 
Against  “Trovatore”  I  had  at  that  time  a  particularly 
strong  and  unreasonable  aversion,  although  it  was  partly 
justified  in  that  we  did  not  have  a  cast  in  our  German 
Opera  Company  that  could  do  justice  to  its  Italian  atmos¬ 
phere  or  its  vocal  demands. 

Whenever  good  luck  would  have  it  that  the  Saturday 
matinee  was  a  Wagner  opera,  I  would  ask  for  and  obtain 
from  Director  Stanton  the  permission  to  leave  for  Wash¬ 
ington  on  Friday  night,  as  this  would  enable  me  to  spend 
Saturday  and  Sunday  with  my  fiancee.  On  one  of  these 
Fridays,  just  after  I  had  received  my  permission,  my 
brother  Frank  came  to  me  and  urged  me  to  take  the  first 
train  to  Washington  that  I  could  catch,  as  he  had  just 
heard  that  the  tenor  who  was  to  sing  in  “Siegfried”  on 
Saturday  afternoon  was  ill,  and  that  in  all  probability  the 
opera  would  be  changed  to  “Trovatore.”  I  quickly  took 
the  hint,  and  when  the  message  came  that  I  was  to  conduct 
“Trovatore,”  I  was  nowhere  to  be  found  and  Anton 
SeidI  was  compelled  to  conduct  it.  Fie  was  furious,  as  he 
had  no  greater  love  for  it  than  I,  and  my  brother  told  me 
afterward  that  he  conducted  the  entire  opera  with  a  black 
scowl  on  his  face,  which  was  bent  low  over  the  score  and 
from  which  he  never  lifted  his  eyes  once  to  give  a  sign  to 
singer  or  orchestra. 

During  the  following  winter,  tragedies  began  to  over- 


CARNEGIE  AND  THE  BLAINE  FAMILY  103 


whelm  the  Blaine  family.  Walker,  the  eldest  son,  a 
young  man  of  great  talent  who  had  inherited  much  of 
his  father’s  personal  charm  and  who  had  become  a  great 
help  to  Mr.  Blaine  in  the  State  Department,  died,  to  be 
followed  shortly  after  by  the  oldest  daughter,  Mrs. 
Coppinger. 

These  two  tragedies,  following  so  closely  upon  each 
other,  were  the  first  break  in  that  perfect  family  circle, 
and  this  affected  Mr.  Blaine’s  spirit  and  health  to  such 
an  extent  that  I  do  not  think  his  vitality  ever  recovered 
from  it. 

I  was  married  to  Margaret  Blaine  on  May  17,  1890.  I 
should  like  to  write  much  more  than  a  chapter  about  the 
thirty-two  wonderful  years  of  our  married  life,  but  as  my 
wife  has  sternly  forbidden  me  to  even  mention  her  name 
in  these  memoirs,  this  chapter  must  close  with  the  best 
left  unsaid,  though  the  most  deeply  felt. 


* 


X 

THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY,  1895-1899 

With  the  return  of  Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau  in  1891, 
Wagner  virtually  disappeared  from  the  stage  of  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House  as  their  entire  energies  were  turned 
toward  producing  operas  of  the  French-Italian  School. 
It  was  a  natural  reaction  from  the  seven  years  of  opera  in 
German  and  the  pendulum  swung  far  to  the  other  side. 
A  company  of  truly  great  singers  had  been  assembled  by 
the  new  managers;  the  audiences  revelled  in  their  bel 
canto ,  and  as  Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau  assumed  the 
entire  financial  responsibility  of  the  enterprise,  the  direc¬ 
tors  of  the  opera-house  were  also  well  satisfied.  They  had 
become  tired  of  the  growing  deficits  of  the  German  opera. 

The  head  and  controlling  spirit  of  the  firm  was  Henry 
Abbey,  a  magnificent  and  honorable  gambler  in  “stars” 
whom  he  paid  so  liberally  that,  while  he  sometimes  gained 
large  profits,  he  many  times  lost  more  heavily.  The 
chances  of  profit  were  too  small  and  generally  it  was  too 
much  like  the  roulette  tables  at  Monte  Carlo,  with  the 
odds  in  favor  of  the  stars. 

John  Schoeffel  was  not  much  more  than  the  hyphen 
between  Abbey  and  Grau.  I  never  could  see  that  he  did 
anything  except,  perhaps,  arrange  for  the  advertisements 
of  the  opera  company  when  it  visited  Boston,  where  he 
lived  as  lessee  of  the  Tremont  Theatre. 

The  actual  direction  of  the  opera  season,  the  arranging 
of  the  repertoire,  the  engagement  of  the  artists,  and  the 
handling  of  them  was  in  the  hands  of  Maurice  Grau,  who 

104 


t 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  105 


had  developed  into  a  first-class  opera  manager.  He 
claimed  but  little  knowledge  of  things  artistic,  but  he 
was  astute  and  had  a  real  flair,  up  to  a  certain  point,  for 
giving  the  public  what  it  wanted.  He  was  honorable  in 
his  dealings  with  the  artists  and  in  a  grudging  way  (which 
operatic  artists  often  have)  they  liked  him,  although  they 
tortured  him  incessantly.  He  used  to  sit  in  his  office 
like  a  spider  from  morning  until  night,  working  out  reper¬ 
toires,  quarrelling  with  the  singers  or  placating  them,  and 
altogether  having  no  interests  in  life  beyond  that — except, 
perhaps,  the  national  game  of  poker,  in  which  he  and  a 
small  group  of  cronies  used  to  indulge — and  a  great  affec¬ 
tion  for  his  little  daughter. 

With  the  exception  of “Lohengrin,”  which  had  sporadic 
performances  in  the  Italian  language,  poor  Wagner  was 
virtually  boycotted,  and  with  my  great  adoration  for  him 
I  chafed  under  this  condition  more  and  more. 

The  winter  of  1893-94  I  had  been  asked  to  arrange 
something  original  in  the  way  of  an  entertainment  for  a 
charity  in  which  I  was  interested,  and  as  Materna,  Anton 
Schott,  and  Emil  Fischer  were  at  that  time  in  America, 
I  conceived  the  idea  of  giving  a  stage  performance  of  the 
“Gotterdammerung”  at  Carnegie  Hall.  Materna  was 
old  and  fat,  but  her  voice  was  still  glorious;  Anton  Schott 
still  made  a  personable  Siegfried ,  and  Emil  Fischer  was 
at  the  height  of  his  vocal  and  histrionic  powers.  The 
scenery,  though  simple,  was  well  improvised  and  part  of 
it  specially  painted,  and  the  weapons  and  other  properties 
were  borrowed  from  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House. 

The  success  was  so  remarkable  that  we  repeated  the 
work  several  times  and  added  “Walkiire.”  This  seemed 
to  me  conclusive  proof  that  the  American  public  were 
more  than  ready  for  the  return  of  Wagner,  and  I  called 


io6 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


on  Abbey  and  Grau  to  suggest  that  they  include  a  certain 
number  of  Wagner  performances  in  German  in  their 
repertoire.  They  threw  up  their  hands  in  horror  at 
the  idea,  saying  that  Wagner  spelled  ruin,  but  as  they 
were  very  kindly  disposed  toward  me  (I  had  conducted 
many  orchestral  concerts  for  some  of  their  instrumental 
stars)  they  suggested  that  if  I  wanted  to  be  foolish  enough 
to  give  Wagner  performances  myself,  they  would  gladly 
rent  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  to  me  in  the  spring 
and  on  easy  terms.  Almost  irresistibly  I  was  drawn  into 
the  resolve  to  take  their  suggestion  seriously,  although  it 
was  made  laughingly  and  sceptically  as  to  its  outcome. 
I  consulted  a  number  of  devoted  friends  who  shared  my 
optimism  and  finally  decided  to  make  the  plunge,  and,  in 
order  to  finance  my  mad  scheme  properly,  I  sold  my  house 
on  West  55th  Street. 

At  the  home  of  Miss  Mary  Callender  and  Miss  Caro  de 
Forest,  both  of  them  true  friends  and  music  lovers,  a 
“ Wagner  Society”  was  formed,  the  purpose  of  which  was 
to  help  the  sale  of  subscription  seats  for  my  venture  and 
to  spread  the  propaganda  for  the  project  in  every  way. 
At  the  first  meeting  of  this  society  so  many  seats  were  sub¬ 
scribed  for  that  the  success  seemed  assured,  and,  besides 
this,  the  directors  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House,  al¬ 
though  they  were  entitled  to  the  free  use  of  their  boxes, 
suggested  to  me  very  generously  that  as  Abbey  and  Grau 
would  charge  a  nominal  rental  of  five  hundred  dollars  a 
night  for  my  performances  they  would  pay  me  that 
amount  for  the  use  of  their  boxes,  so  that  I  should  have 
the  house  virtually  rent  free. 

Abbey  and  Grau,  who  looked  on  me  as  a  kind  of  foolish 
boy  who  was  plunging  madly  toward  destruction,  told 
me  with  equal  generosity  that  I  could  have  whatever  of 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  107 


their  enormous  stock  of  costumes  and  properties  might 
prove  of  use  for  the  Wagner  operas. 

About  this  time  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  William 
Steinway,  then  the  head  of  the  house  of  Steinway  &  Sons, 
and  a  great  lover  of  music,  asking  me  to  come  down  to 
see  him,  as  he  was  very  much  interested  in  my  project  for 
the  return  of  Wagner  to  the  Metropolitan.  I  did  so  and 
found  him  at  his  desk  crippled  with  gout  but  very  cheerful 
and  happy  over  my  venture,  for  which  he  prophesied  great 
success.  He  suggested,  however,  that  while  he  realized 
that  the  idea  and  the  venture  were  entirely  mine,  and 
that  I  was  entitled  to  every  credit  and  advantage  from 
it,  it  would  be  a  very  generous  act  on  my  part  if  I  invited 
Anton  SeidI  to  share  the  conducting  of  the  Wagner 
operas  and  music-dramas.  He  pointed  out  that  SeidI  was 
looked  on  by  the  American  public  as  a  great  Wagner  con¬ 
ductor,  and  his  co-operation  would  show  that  I  intended 
to  found  my  project  on  the  broadest  and  most  generous 
lines.  He  said  that  if  I  would  agree  to  his  suggestion, 
he  would  arrange  a  meeting  for  SeidI  and  myself  at  his 
office  for  the  following  day,  and  I  could  be  sure  of  his 
heartiest  personal  and  financial  support. 

I  thought  well  of  his  idea,  and,  while  SeidI  and  I  had 
never  been  on  cordial  personal  terms  during  the  old  Ger¬ 
man  opera  days,  nor  afterward  when  we  went  our  separate 
ways  as  concert  conductors,  I  felt  that  the  project  might 
be  much  strengthened  by  a  combination,  and  accordingly 
met  SeidI,  together  with  William  Steinway,  in  the  latter’s 
office  the  following  day.  I  outlined  my  project  to  SeidI, 
told  him  of  the  support  I  had  already  gained,  of  my  ar¬ 
rangement  with  Abbey  and  Grau,  and  that  I  was  financing 
the  scheme  myself,  but  that,  with  full  admiration  for  his 
work  in  America  during  the  years  of  German  opera  after 


io8 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


my  father’s  death,  I  should  be  glad  to  divide  the  Wagner 
operas  with  him.  I  showed  him  a  list  of  the  eight  I  in¬ 
tended  to  produce.  They  were,  as  I  remember,  as  follows : 

“Rhinegold” 

“  Walkiire” 

“Siegfried” 

Gotterdammerung 
“Tristan  and  Isolde” 

“  Meistersinger  ” 

“Lohengrin” 

“Tannhauser” 

I  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  pick  out  the  four 
which  he  preferred  and  that  I  would  conduct  the  other 
four.  Steinway  pronounced  this  offer  extremely  fair  and 
generous  and  urged  SeidI  to  accept  it,  but  SeidI  said  he 
would  have  to  think  it  over  and  would  notify  Steinway 
of  his  decision. 

The  next  day  he  called  on  Steinway  at  nine  o’clock  in  the 
morning  and  told  him  that  he  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  would  not  divide  the  conducting  of  the  Wagner 
operas  with  any  one  and,  therefore,  preferred  not  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  venture.  Steinway  was  furious, 
and  when  he  told  me  of  this  he  said:  “I  am  now  with  you 
heart  and  soul  and  here  is  my  check  for  twenty-five  hun¬ 
dred  dollars  for  which  I  will  take  subscription  seats  for 
your  season  in  different  parts  of  the  house.” 

I  arranged  for  a  season  of  eight  weeks  at  the  Metropoli¬ 
tan  and  a  tour  of  five  weeks  which  should  take  us  as  far 
west  as  Kansas  City,  as  this  Far  Western  outpost  had 
immediately  put  in  a  generous  bid  for  three  performances. 

I  went  abroad  that  spring  to  engage  my  artists  and 
succeeded  in  gathering  a  notable  company  of  Wagnerian 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  109 


singers:  Rosa  Sucher,  of  the  Berlin  Royal  Opera  for  the 
Brunhildes  and  Isolde ;  a  young  singer  of  twenty-three, 
Johanna  Gadski,  who  sang  for  me  in  Berlin,  for  Elsa 
and  Elizabeth ;  Emil  Fischer,  of  the  Dresden  Royal  Opera, 
for  Wotan  and  Hans  Sachs,  and  Max  Alvary,  the  hand¬ 
somest  and  most  dramatic  of  Siegfrieds  and  a  truly 
knightly  Tristan .  He  had  studied  the  latter  role  at 
Bayreuth  and  had  sung  it  there  at  the  first  performances. 
At  Bayreuth  I  also  found  a  highly  gifted  English  singer, 
Marie  Brema,  who  was  then  almost  unknown  but  who 
was  the  possessor  of  a  rich  and  expressive  mezzo-soprano. 
Her  talent  for  acting  was  remarkable  and  her  vocal  range 
so  great  that  I  thought  I  could  use  her  not  only  for 
Ortrude  and  Brangane,  but,  if  necessary,  for  the  Brunhildes 
as  well. 

A  great  deal  of  the  scenery  for  “Tristan”  and  the 
“Nibelung  Trilogy”  as  well  as  for  “Tannhauser”  I  had 
especially  painted  in  Vienna  by  the  firm  of  Kautsky  and 
Briosky.  They  were  at  that  time  at  the  head  of  their 
profession,  and  such  beautiful  foliage  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  forest  scene  of  “Siegfried,”  had  never  before  been 
seen  on  an  American  stage.  Our  New  York  painters 
gathered  around  it  in  amazement  when  it  had  been  un¬ 
packed  and  properly  mounted  and  hung. 

Such  an  expert  on  naval  matters  as  William  J.  Hen¬ 
derson,  the  eminent  music  editor  of  the  New  York  Sun , 
deservedly  criticised  the  architecture  and  rigging  of  the 
ship  that  bore  Tristan  and  Isolde  across  the  Irish  seas  to 
Cornwall.  Vienna,  the  home  of  my  scene-painters,  is 
not  a  seaport,  and  the  gorgeous  tent  of  Isolde9s,  and  the 
sails  and  mast,  while  very  picturesque,  completely  hid 
the  course  of  the  ship  from  Tristan  at  the  helm,  and  if  he 
had  not  been  an  operatic  sailor,  who  knew  exactly  where 


I  10 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


the  ship  was  going  to  land  at  the  end  of  the  act,  he  un¬ 
doubtedly  would  have  sent  it  crashing  against  the  white- 
chalk  cliffs  of  England  instead  of  guiding  it  safely  into 
the  harbor  of  Cornwall. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  subscriptions  for  seats  at  our 
New  York  office  had  gone  up  by  such  leaps  and  bounds 
that  the  financial  success  of  my  “ crazy  venture”  was 
assured  before  the  box-office  opened  for  the  single  sale  of 
tickets. 

I  had  chosen  “Tristan”  for  the  opening  performance. 
It  was  in  1895.  The  general  rehearsal  had  gone  well  and 
an  immense  audience  filled  every  available  space  of  the 
opera-house  and  greeted  me  warmly  as  I  appeared  on  the 
conductor’s  stand.  I  was  just  about  to  begin  the  pre¬ 
lude  when  a  whisper  reached  me  that  the  English  horn 
player  was  not  in  his  place.  It  was  old  Joseph  Eller,  who 
had  played  in  the  Philharmonic  under  my  father  many 
years  before.  He  had,  incredible  to  relate,  forgotten 
his  instrument  and,  discovering  this  only  on  his  arrival 
at  the  Metropolitan,  had  rushed  home  but  had  not  yet 
returned.  Imagine  my  agitation !  Everything  was  ready, 
the  lights  turned  down  and  the  audience  expectant,  and 
I  finally  did  not  dare  to  wait  any  longer.  I  assigned 
the  English  horn  part  to  the  third  French  horn  player 
and  we  began  the  long-drawn  sighs  of  the  violoncellos  of 
the  introductory  bars  of  the  prelude.  To  my  great  relief 
I  saw  Eller  slip  into  his  place  a  few  minutes  later,  and 
the  performance  moved  well  and  dramatically  toward  a 
triumphant  close,  in  which  Alvary,  especially,  distin¬ 
guished  himself  by  his  marvellous  acting  and  impassioned 
singing  in  the  scene  preceding  the  arrival  of  the  ship  bear¬ 
ing  Isolde.  Sucher  invested  Isolde  with  a  gentle,  wo¬ 
manly  dignity,  but  vocally  she  was  no  longer  quite  in  her 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  m 


prime  and  did  not,  I  think,  equal  Lilli  Lehmann  or 
Klafsky  and  Ternina,  whom  I  brought  to  America  the 
following  year. 

To  re-enter  the  Metropolitan  on  such  a  Wagnerian  wave 
after  German  opera  had  been  so  ignominiously  snuffed 
out  five  years  before,  was  a  great  triumph  and  satisfac¬ 
tion  for  me,  more  especially  because  my  father  had  laid 
the  foundation  eleven  years  before. 

I  produced  the  other  Wagnerian  operas  in  quick  suc¬ 
cession,  and  as  the  houses  were  sold  out  for  every  per¬ 
formance  the  profit  was  considerable. 

Madame  Marie  Brema  proved  herself  such  a  valuable 
member  of  the  company,  both  as  Ortrude  and  Brangane , 
that  I  felt  it  would  be  wise  to  give  her  the  opportunity 
to  sing  Brunbilde  in  “Walkiire”  as  well.  I,  therefore, 
quietly  began  to  train  her  in  that  role.  Unfortunately, 
during  a  rehearsal  which  I  had  with  her  alone  on  the 
stage,  Madame  Sucher  happened  to  saunter  in  and,  hear¬ 
ing  the  familiar  music  coming  from  my  piano,  she  sud¬ 
denly  beheld  another  woman  singing  Brunbilde .  She 
gave  me  one  indignant  but  comprehensive  glance  and 
then  majestically  sailed  off  the  stage.  A  few  hours 
later  I  received  a  letter  in  which  she  announced  to  me  that 
she  wished  to  return  to  Germany  on  the  next  steamer,  as 
she  had  not  been  accustomed  until  then  to  have  “her” 
roles  sung  by  another  as  long  as  she  was  in  the  company. 

This  was  the  first  letter  of  the  kind  that  I  had  received 
during  my  short  career  as  opera  impresario,  but  it  was 
but  the  prototype  of  many  similar  ones  that  followed  each 
other  like  snowflakes  in  a  storm  during  my  various  opera 
seasons. 

I,  of  course,  immediately  sent  Madame  Sucher  a  large 
bouquet  of  roses  and  wrote  to  her  that,  quite  apart  from 


I  12 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


contractual  obligations,  I  could  not  understand  how  she 
would  want  to  leave  America  after  she  had  “sung  herself 
so  gloriously  into  the  hearts  of  my  countrymen.”  I  do 
not  know  whether  my  letter  or  the  roses  had  any  effect,  or 
whether  wiser  counsels  prevailed,  but  she  stayed  with  me 
and  continued  her  work  with  great  good  nature  and  even 
endured  the  hated  sight  of  having  Marie  Brema  sing 
Brunhilde  at  several  of  the  subsequent  performances. 

In  Kansas  City  we  ended  our  stay  with  a  matinee 
performance  of  “Siegfried,”  Madame  Sucher  as  Brunhilde 
and  Max  Alvary,  the  handsome,  as  Siegfried.  My  read¬ 
ers  will  remember  the  great  scene  in  which  Brunhilde  is 
awakened  from  her  slumber  of  years  by  the  kiss  of  Sieg¬ 
fried,  who  bends  over  her  in  that  delightful  but  difficult 
position  for  a  long  time  until  a  certain  bar  in  the  music 
denotes  that  the  kiss  is  ended.  The  house  was  crowded 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  audience  were  women.  Sud¬ 
denly,  while  I  was  conducting  the  exquisite  music  accom¬ 
panying  the  extended  kiss,  some  one  in  the  gallery  inclined 
to  facetiousness  imitated  very  distinctly  the  smacking 
sound  of  kissing,  and,  to  my  horror,  little  ripples  of  femi¬ 
nine  laughter  rose  and  fell,  awoke  and  died,  to  be  renewed 
again.  Alvary  was  wonderful.  He  raised  his  handsome 
head,  gazed  with  calm  eyes  at  the  audience  until  a  death¬ 
like  silence  reigned  and  then,  with  equal  calm,  returned 
to  his  previous  occupation.  It  was  certainly  a  triumph 
of  man  over  woman,  or  rather  women,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  act  they  greeted  this  young  god  with  special  and  ador¬ 
ing  enthusiasm. 

The  entire  profits  of  my  first  venture  as  owner  and 
director  of  an  opera  company  for  thirteen  weeks  amounted 
to  about  fifty -three  thousand  dollars.  (Alas !  I  did  not 
retain  this  quickly  gained  fortune  a  long  time.) 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  113 


I  had  again  planted  the  flag  of  Wagner  firmly  in  Ameri¬ 
can  ground  and  naturally  did  not  wish  to  see  it  pulled 
down  again.  I  therefore  called  on  Abbey  and  Grau  and — 
as  I  had  no  desire  for  managerial  honors,  the  artistic  side 
of  it  only  interesting  me — begged  them  to  add  a  German 
department  to  their  really  splendid  galaxy  of  French  and 
Italian  artists  and  to  let  me  take  care  of  it  for  them.  But 
at  that  time  they  did  not  seem  ready  to  alter  their  tradi¬ 
tional  operatic  scheme,  and  my  suggestion  did  not  meet 
with  a  favorable  response.  I  then  decided  that  I  would 
go  on  myself.  My  first  season  had  taught  me  a  great 
deal.  I  had  acquired  a  considerable  stock  of  scenery, 
costumes,  and  properties,  and  I  knew  where  I  could  still 
further  improve  the  artistic  personnel  of  my  company.  I 
thought  that  by  arranging  for  a  longer  season  of  five 
months  I  should  be  able  to  give  my  singers  and  orchestra 
better  contracts  financially  and  also  introduce  the  Wagner 
operas  over  a  greater  territory. 

All  my  friends  except  one  urged  me  to  go  on  with  the 
work.  The  one  exception  was  Andrew  Carnegie  who 
said,  with  that  canny  business  acumen  which  made  him 
one  of  the  world’s  richest  men: 

“Walter,  you  have  made  a  great  success,  artistically 
as  well  as  financially;  your  profits  have  been  enormous. 
But  such  a  success  rarely  repeats  itself  immediately. 
You  rightly  divined  the  desire  of  the  public  for  a  return 
of  Wagner  opera,  but  this  current  has  drawn  into  it 
many  people  who  have  come  for  curiosity  only,  and  to 
whom  Wagner  is  still  a  closed  book.  Many  of  these 
will  not  come  back  another  time.  Be  contented  to  rest 
on  your  laurels.” 

Of  course  I  would  not  listen  to  such  good  business 
advice  and  accordingly  engaged  a  company  of  singers 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 14 


for  the  following  year,  who  made  a  really  remarkable 
ensemble.  Among  the  newcomers  was  Madame  Kath¬ 
erine  Klafsky  whose  overwhelming  impersonations  of 
Brunhilde ,  Isolde ,  and  especially  of  Fidelio,  still  vibrate 
in  my  memory.  This  last  opera  gave  me  such  joy  to  con¬ 
duct  that,  although  it  never  drew  within  a  thousand  dol¬ 
lars  as  much  as  any  of  the  other  operas,  I  would  insist  on 
keeping  it  in  the  repertoire.  This  proves  conclusively 
that  the  artist  in  me  was  much  stronger  than  the  im¬ 
presario  and  that  I  really  had  no  business  to  engage  in 
the  latter  occupation. 

Fidelio  ( Leonore ),  in  the  second  act,  liberates  her  hus¬ 
band  from  his  shackles  in  the  prison,  and  he  says  to  her, 
“O,  my  Leonore,  how  much  hast  thou  done  for  me!” 
She  answers,  “Nothing,  nothing,  my  Florestan,”  and  the 
orchestra  begins  a  soft  murmur,  upon  which  the  two  voices 
rise  in  an  ecstatic  duet  of  love.  Klafsky  gave  this  scene 
with  such  tenderness  that  the  entire  orchestra,  as  well 
as  myself,  were  by  this  time  almost  choking  with  emotion, 
and  it  was  all  that  I  could  do  to  lift  my  baton  to  give  the 
signal  for  the  beginning  of  the  duet. 

Madame  Ternina,  another  newcomer,  was  prevented 
by  illness  from  appearing  in  Chicago,  but  in  Boston  she 
created  a  genuine  sensation.  The  public  divided  itself 
into  two  factions,  the  one  extolling  the  almost  elemental 
dramatic  vehemence  of  Klafsky,  who  fairly  poured  out  her 
glorious  voice,  while  the  other  proclaimed  Ternina  the 
greater  artist  because  of  her  more  intellectual  concep¬ 
tion  and  a  certain  noble  artistic  reticence. 

Part  of  the  summer  of  1894  I  had  spent  in  beginning 
the  music  of  an  opera  on  Hawthorne’s  “The  Scarlet 
Letter.”  The  subject  had  always  fascinated  me  and  I 
had  years  before  prepared  a  dramatic  scenario  for  which 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  1 15 


I  finally  induced  Hawthorne’s  son-in-law,  George  Par¬ 
sons  Lathrop,  to  prepare  a  libretto.  I  completed  the 
composition  of  the  music  the  following  summer  and  de¬ 
cided  to  produce  it  during  the  season  1895-96  with  the 
Damrosch  Opera  Company  in  Boston,  where  the  scene  of 
the  original  novel  is  laid,  in  the  old  Colonial  days  of 
Governor  Endicott. 

I  gave  the  role  of  Hester  Prynne  to  Johanna  Gadski. 
David  Bispham  played  Roger  Chillingworth ,  and  Barron 
Berthold  sang  the  clergyman,  Arthur  Dimmesdale. 

The  first  performance  took  place  February  10,  1896. 
American  audiences  are  proverbially  kind  to  authors  on 
first  nights,  and  Boston  was  especially  interested  in  this 
opera  because  of  Hawthorne’s  novel.  The  scenery  pre¬ 
sented  old  Boston  in  very  picturesque  fashion,  and  I  had 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  with  my  stage  manager  and 
costumer  in  the  different  Boston  collections  of  Colonial 
belongings  in  order  to  give  a  correct  picture  of  that  period. 
Early  portraits  were  consulted  for  the  “ make-up”  of 
Governor  Endicott  and  other  old  Boston  celebrities,  and 
the  “ company  of  ancient  and  honorable  artillery”  who 
appeared  in  the  last  act  carried  an  exact  copy  of  the 
banner  which  still  hangs,  I  think,  in  Faneuil  Hall. 

Gadski  gave  a  very  touching  impersonation  of  Hester, 
and  Bispham  fairly  revelled  in  the  fiendish  machinations 
of  Roger  Chillingworth.  The  artists  and  composer  re¬ 
ceived  numberless  recalls  and  the  members  of  my  com¬ 
pany  united  in  presenting  me  with  several  charming  me¬ 
mentos  of  the  day. 

Mrs.  John  L.  Gardner,  who  had  already  in  those  days 
become  a  real  and  loyal  friend  and  supporter,  and  who 
has,  according  to  her  wonderful  capacity  for  friendship, 
continued  as  such  during  these  many  years,  sent  a  huge 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 16 


laurel  wreath  to  the  stage  for  me,  the  centre  of  which 
contained  a  large  scarlet  letter  “A”  !  The  reader  may 
imagine  what  jokes  were  cracked  at  my  expense  about 
that  very  prominently  displayed  letter. 

The  music  was,  I  think,  well  written  and  orchestrated, 
but  so  much  of  it  had  been  conceived  under  the  over¬ 
whelming  influence  of  Wagner,  that  I  am  afraid  Anton 
SeidI  was  right  when,  after  hearing  the  work  in  New 
York,  he  confided  cynically  to  his  friends  that  it  was  a 
“New  England  Nibelung  TriIogy.,, 

Reviewing  the  work  critically  myself  after  these  many 
years,  I  would  say  that  it  showed  sufficient  talent  and 
musicianly  grasp  to  warrant  a  composer’s  career,  but  life 
and  its  exigencies  willed  otherwise,  and  all  the  “might 
have  beens”  are  but  idle  speculation. 

An  evil  star  seemed  to  shine  over  that  winter’s  opera 
season  from  the  financial  standpoint.  The  entire  coun¬ 
try  was  suffering  from  a  severe  financial  depression  and 
my  company  was  large  and  expensive.  I  had  to  travel 
continually,  and  during  the  entire  five  months  carried  a 
company  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  people,  including 
an  orchestra  of  seventy  men,  as  I  considered  so  large  an 
aggregation  my  solemn  duty  as  a  Wagner  disciple  and 
propagandist. 

As  Abbey  and  Grau  finally  decided  to  embark  on  a  Ger~ 
man  opera  department  of  their  own,  adopting  my  sugges¬ 
tion  when  it  was  too  late  for  me  to  combine  with  them, 
they  very  naturally  shut  me  out  of  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  and  I  was  compelled,  for  my  New  York 
season,  to  lease  the  old  Academy  of  Music  which  had  be¬ 
come  a  house  for  cheap  theatrical  productions  and  had 
lost  its  high  fashionable  estate  of  other  years. 

My  seasons  in  Chicago  and  Boston  had  been  profitable, 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  117 


but  many  cities  in  the  South,  with  the  exception  of  New 
Orleans,  which  gave  me  a  wonderful  welcome,  could  not 
pay  expenses,  as  the  theatres  were  too  small  and  my  com¬ 
pany  too  large  and  literally  too  good. 

In  New  Orleans  we  played  an  entire  week  at  the  old 
St.  Charles  Theatre.  The  dressing-rooms  for  the  chorus 
were  in  the  cellar  and  just  before  the  first  performance 
the  women  of  the  chorus  ran  shrieking  up  on  the  stage, 
vowing  that  they  would  not  return,  as  rats  as  large  as 
good-sized  rabbits  were  scampering  around  the  cellar. 
I  could  not  believe  them  until  I  went  down  and  saw  those 
horrible  creatures  with  my  own  eyes. 

Our  last  performance  was  to  have  been  on  Saturday 
night,  but  on  that  day  I  received  a  petition  signed  by  a 
number  of  citizens  asking  whether  we  could  give  them  a 
“Fidelio”  performance  with  Madame  Klafsky  on  Sun¬ 
day  morning.  As  our  train  was  to  leave  at  three  P.  M. 
on  that  day,  we  had  to  begin  this  performance  at  eleven 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  The  announcement  that  this 
extra  performance  was  to  be  given  was  made  only  the 
night  before  and  in  the  Sunday  morning  papers.  By 
eleven  o’clock  the  house  was  sold  out. 

I  took  the  company  as  far  west  as  Denver  and  every¬ 
where  virtually  introduced  for  the  first  time  the  “Trilogy,” 
“Tristan,”  and  “Die  Meistersinger”  to  the  public. 

I  remember  a  performance  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island, 
where,  in  default  of  a  theatre,  the  armory  had  been  adapted 
for  us  by  an  improvised  stage  which  was,  however,  so  low 
that  the  orchestra  could  easily  see  what  was  going  on. 
The  opera  was  “Lohengrin,”  and  just  before  the  scene  in 
the  last  act,  when  Godfrey,  the  little  brother  of  Elsa, 
appears  in  place  of  the  magic  swan  to  rush  into  the  out¬ 
stretched  arms  of  Elsa ,  the  stage-manager  suddenly  dis- 


1 18  MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


covered  that  the  little  ballet  girl  who  always  assumed  the 
role  was  not  present.  What  to  do?  In  the  emergency 
he  grabbed  Hans,  son  of  my  prompter  and  at  that  time  a 
kind  of  assistant  to  everybody  as  call-boy,  assistant  li¬ 
brarian,  etc.,  etc.  He  was  only  fourteen  and  small  of 
stature  but  with  the  excessive  length  of  arms  and  legs 
characteristic  of  that  age.  By  some  painful  process 
he  was  forced  into  the  costume  of  Godfrey  and  pushed 
on  the  stage  just  in  the  nick  of  time.  I  suddenly  no¬ 
ticed  a  commotion  among  my  orchestra,  and  as  I  fol¬ 
lowed  their  astonished  but  delighted  gaze  I  saw  the  un¬ 
canny  apparition  of  Hans  as  a  counterfeit  Godfrey  stand¬ 
ing  on  the  stage  evidently  frightened  out  of  his  wits. 
Gadski,  who  sang  Elsa,  with  great  presence  of  mind, 
stretched  her  arms  wide  and  not  only  welcomed,  but 
extinguished  him  beneath  the  voluminous  folds  of  her 
cloak  and  I  doubt  whether  the  public  realized  that  the 
real  princely  brother  had  not  made  his  appearance. 

When  we  finally  arrived  in  New  York,  I  had  already 
lost  a  great  deal  of  the  large  profits  of  the  year  before, 
and  this  loss  was  further  increased  by  my  season  at  the 
Academy  of  Music. 

During  the  New  York  season  my  wife  and  I  stayed  at 
the  stately  old  house  of  our  dear  friends,  Sophie  and  Tina 
Furniss,  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  Fortieth  Street.  With 
characteristic  kindness,  they  not  only  took  a  large  pro¬ 
scenium  box  for  every  performance,  but,  having  heard 
that  affairs  had  not  gone  well  financially,  insisted  that  we 
must  be  their  guests  for  the  entire  New  York  season, 
in  order,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  not  have  to  incur  the 
extravagance  of  an  hotel. 

These  elderly  ladies,  together  with  a  married  sister, 
Mrs.  Zimmermann,  were  the  daughters  of  an  old  East 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  1 19 


India  merchant  who,  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  had  amassed  a  fortune.  Their  house  was  full  of 
lovely  old  furniture  and  mementos  of  a  bygone  age  and 
they  dispensed  within  its  walls  a  very  generous  and  dig¬ 
nified  hospitality. 

An  old  colored  coachman  named  Brown  had  been  with 
them  for  forty  years.  He  always,  together  with  a  young 
colored  footman,  sat  high  up  on  their  carriage  in  great 
state  and  solemnity.  The  young  footman  having  been 
sent  away  in  disgrace  during  our  stay,  Brown  was  in¬ 
structed  to  procure  another  boy  to  take  his  place.  A 
week  elapsed  and  the  new  boy  had  not  been  found,  and 
when  Miss  Sophie  said  to  him:  “Brown,  why  haven’t 
you  gotten  us  a  new  boy?  Are  they  difficult  to  find?” 
he  answered: 

“No,  Miss  Sophie,  there’s  plenty  o’  boys,  but  ah  find 
it  so  hard  to  ma’ch  mah  colah.” 

He  evidently  was  a  great  stickler  for  unanimity,  not 
only  in  the  color  of  the  livery  but  of  the  skin  as  well. 

Miss  Sophie,  the  oldest  of  these  three  delightful  ladies, 
had  an  incredible  vitality,  and  although  bodily  infirm¬ 
ities  and  advancing  years  did  their  best  to  curb  her,  she 
remained  active,  cheerful,  and  undaunted  until  the  end. 
Almost  every  night  during  my  opera  season  of  six  weeks 
she  would  hobble  from  the  carriage  to  her  proscenium 
box,  supported  by  her  cane  on  one  side  and  the  footman 
on  the  other,  and  she  listened  to  the  Wagnerian  music- 
dramas  with  unflagging  attention.  Not  even  the  length 
of  “Gotterdammerung”  or  “Meistersinger”  would  phase 
her,  and  after  the  performance,  during  supper,  she  would 
proudly  repeat,  while  her  eyes  fairly  snapped  with  laugh¬ 
ter,  some  remark  of  mine  that  I  had  made  two  years  be¬ 
fore  at  their  country  place  in  Lenox,  during  my  delivery 


120 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


of  a  series  of  explanatory  recitals  on  the  “Nibelung 
Trilogy.” 

Another  fellow  guest  was  Doctor  Sturgis  Bigelow,  an 
enthusiastic  admirer  of  Madame  Ternina’s  art,  who  had 
come  to  New  York  especially  to  be  present  at  all  of  her 
appearances.  She  was  to  have  made  her  farewell  to 
America  in  the  “  Gotterdammerung  ”  and  Doctor  Bige¬ 
low  had  ordered  enough  flowers  from  half  a  dozen  of  the 
florists  of  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue  to  fill  the  entire 
Academy,  but  unfortunately  Madame  Ternina  became 
ill  and  her  place  had  to  be  taken  at  the  last  moment  by 
her  rival,  Madame  Klafsky.  Doctor  Bigelow  had  no  de¬ 
sire  to  present  the  floral  testimony  of  his  adoration  to  this 
rival  singer,  and  therefore  proceeded  on  the  difficult  task 
of  cancelling  his  many  orders,  but  as  many  of  the  wreaths 
and  lyres  had  already  been  prepared,  his  bill  for  “dam¬ 
ages”  was  quite  large. 

Before  Ternina  sailed  for  home  she  told  me  that  she 
intended  to  stay  away  for  a  few  years.  I  had  paid  her 
five  hundred  dollars  an  appearance  which  was  a  fair 
honorarium  at  that  time,  as  she  was  absolutely  unknown 
and  therefore  had  not  yet  developed  a  sufficient  “draw¬ 
ing  power”  to  warrant  a  higher  fee,  but  she  said  she 
would  not  come  back  to  America  until  she  could  com¬ 
mand  a  fee  of  a  thousand  dollars.  This  decision  she 
adhered  to,  and  when  she  did  return  a  few  years  later, 
Maurice  Grau  cheerfully  paid  her  the  thousand  dollars 
and  she  was  immediately  proclaimed  one  of  the  greatest 
Isoldes  of  our  time. 

My  New  York  season  opened  on  March  4,  1896,  with 
Beethoven’s  “Fidelo.”  The  audience  was  a  distinguished 
one,  containing  a  great  many  of  the  old  Academy  habit¬ 
ues.  Grand  opera  had  not  been  given  there  since  1888, 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY 


I  2 1 


when  the  tenor,  Italo  Campanini,  had  brought  over  an 
Italian  opera  company. 

Of  Klafsky  I  have  already  spoken,  but  my  new  bary¬ 
tone,  Dimitri  Popovici,  also  made  a  sensation.  I  had 
found  him  in  Bayreuth,  where  he  had  sung  Telramund  and 
Kurvenal. 

I  produced  my  own  opera,  “The  Scarlet  Letter,”  dur¬ 
ing  the  second  week,  and  the  reception  accorded  it  was 
more  than  cordial.  As  the  Symphony  Society  of  New 
York  wished  to  present  me  with  an  exquisitely  bound 
copy  of  Hawthorne’s  “The  Scarlet  Letter”  as  a  memento, 
Richard  Welling,  the  secretary  and  an  old  friend,  sug¬ 
gested  to  Anton  SeidI,  who  was  in  the  audience,  that 
he  be  spokesman,  but  as  he  refused  Welling  presented 
the  book  to  me  himself. 

While  the  balance-sheet  of  the  five  months’  season 
showed  a  “loss  of  forty-three  thousand  dollars,”  the 
larger  part  of  my  gains  of  the  year  before,  I  cannot  say 
that  my  wife  and  I  were  very  much  cast  down.  Youth  is 
optimistic,  and  the  loss  of  money  is,  in  itself,  not  such  a 
dreadful  calamity  if  one  still  has  enough  to  pay  one’s 
debts;  and  all  this  time  I  was  adding  to  my  experience 
and  artistic  stature. 

After  a  long  consultation  with  my  wife  we  both  de¬ 
cided  that  the  conditions  under  which  I  had  worked  that 
disastrous  winter  were  not  normal,  and  that  we  could 
well  risk  another  season.  Two  factors  influenced  me 
greatly  in  this  decision:  one,  that  a  group  of  Philadel¬ 
phia  citizens  had  come  forward  and  desired  me  to  con¬ 
sider  their  Academy  of  Music  as  my  artistic  home,  and  said 
that  they  would  give  every  possible  assistance  to  a  regular 
season  there,  and  the  other  was  that  Abbey  and  Grau 
frankly  confessed  to  me  that  they  had  made  a  mistake 


122 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


in  not  accepting  my  offer  of  a  combination.  They  had 
not  been  fortunate  in  the  choice  of  their  German  singers 
and  had  lost  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  on 
their  German  operas,  which  was  nearly  four  times  as 
much  as  I  had  lost.  Grau  suggested  for  the  following 
season  an  interchange  of  certain  artists,  and  if  I  would 
occasionally  lend  him  Madame  Klafsky,  whom  he  ad¬ 
mired  greatly,  he  would  in  turn  give  me  Madame  Calve 
for  a  few  performances  of  “Carmen.”  This  arrangement 
seemed  admirable  to  me,  as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
Wagner  opera  alone  was  not  sufficient  to  give  a  well- 
balanced  opera  season,  and  that  for  a  longer  season  Phil¬ 
adelphia  would  demand  a  more  varied  repertoire. 

For  the  following  season  of  1897-98  affairs  moved  much 
easier  for  me.  The  Philadelphia  committee  gave  me  a 
guarantee  for  a  regular  opera  season  at  the  Philadelphia 
Academy  of  Music.  This  assured  me  a  home  and  a  per¬ 
manent  place  for  my  large  store  of  scenery,  costumes, 
and  properties.  Rehearsals  also  were  thus  made  easier 
and,  for  my  New  York  season  in  the  spring,  Abbey  and 
Grau  again  rented  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  to  me. 

I  had  re-engaged  Madame  Klafsky,  but  to  our  great 
sorrow  she  died,  and  the  problem  of  finding  a  successor 
was  a  serious  one.  Madame  Gadski,  who  had  charmed 
our  audiences  with  Elsa ,  Elizabeth ,  and  Sieglinde,  was 
rather  young  for  the  heavy  dramatic  roles,  although  I 
had  begun  to  train  her  in  the  “  Walkiire”  and  “ Siegfried” 
Brunhildes.  I  began  negotiations  with  Lilli  Lehmann 
and  was  successful  in  obtaining  her  wonderful  services 
for  the  following  year — but  of  this  I  have  written  in  detail 
in  another  chapter. 

The  financial  results  of  this  season  were  quite  satis¬ 
factory,  but  I  was  beginning  to  chafe  more  and  more  un- 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  123 


der  the  unsympathetic  task  of  manager.  To  rehearse 
singers  and  orchestra  from  morning  until  night  was  a 
pleasure,  because  there  was  an  artistic  ideal  to  be  achieved 
and  because  there  were  all  manner  of  musical  difficulties 
to  be  overcome.  That  was  part  of  my  work  as  a  musi¬ 
cian  and  conductor,  and  the  fatigues  and  worries  con¬ 
nected  with  this  were  easily  endured.  But  the  man¬ 
agerial  duties  annoyed  me,  and  the  constant  intrigues 
among  the  singers,  directed  sometimes  against  each  other 
and  at  other  times  against  the  management,  often  seemed 
to  me  unbearable. 

In  the  spring  of  1898  Madame  Nellie  Melba,  the  golden¬ 
voiced,  told  me  that  she  would  like  to  join  my  company 
for  the  following  winter,  and  suggested  that  her  manager, 
Mr.  Charles  Ellis,  well  known  as  the  manager  of  the  Bos¬ 
ton  Symphony  Orchestra,  form  a  partnership  with  me,  the 
company  to  be  called  The  Damrosch-EIIis  Opera  Com¬ 
pany,  half  of  the  repertoire  to  be  devoted,  as  before,  to  the 
Wagner  operas  and  the  other  half  to  the  performance  of 
French-Italian  operas  with  herself  as  the  principal  singer. 
We  were  to  pay  her  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  night,  ten 
times  a  month,  guaranteed.  The  suggestion  seemed  to  me 
reasonable  and  advantageous,  and  arrangements  were 
made  accordingly.  This  combination  aroused  great  indig¬ 
nation  on  the  part  of  Mr.  George  Haven,  the  president  of 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  Mme.  Melba  had  been 
one  of  the  principal  singers  there  for  several  years  and 
he  felt  that  it  was  an  act  of  ingratitude  on  her  part  to 
leave  the  Metropolitan,  and  on  mine  to  take  her  into  my 
company,  as  I  had  myself  been  associated  with  the 
Metropolitan  during  so  many  years  while  he  was  presi¬ 
dent.  I  did  not  think  that  his  anger  was  justified,  as  a 
great  deal  of  water  had  flowed  down-stream  since  those 


124 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


days;  and,  as  Melba,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  had  defi¬ 
nitely  decided  to  sever  all  connections  with  the  Metro¬ 
politan,  I  could  not  see  why  I  should  not  make  her  a 
member  of  my  company.  But  he  could  not,  or  would 
not,  see  my  side  of  the  controversy,  and  vowed  that  as 
long  as  he  was  president  of  the  Metropolitan  I  should 
never  set  foot  in  it  again  in  a  professional  capacity.  This 
vow,  however,  was  subsequently  not  adhered  to,  as  I 
not  only  gave  performances  there  later  with  my  own 
company,  but  during  the  seasons  of  1900-01  and  1901-02 
officiated  again  as  conductor  of  the  Wagner  operas  for 
Maurice  Grau,  who  had  then  become  the  sole  director 
and  lessee  of  the  Metropolitan. 

The  combination  of  Wagnerian  operas  with  the  operas 
of  the  French-Italian  school,  of  which  Melba  was  the 
glorious  star,  proved  successful  from  a  popular  and  finan¬ 
cial  standpoint,  and  the  season  showed  a  handsome 
profit  for  Ellis  and  myself,  although  a  great  part  of  this 
was  dissipated  by  a  spring  tour  in  which  Melba,  sup¬ 
ported  by  a  small  company  of  singers,  chorus,  and  orches¬ 
tra,  toured  the  Western  cities.  This  tour  was  managed 
by  my  partner,  Ellis,  and  I  did  not  accompany  them,  as 
my  services  as  conductor  were  not  needed  for  the  French 
operas.  I  had  by  that  time  definitely  decided  to  give  up 
all  further  connection  with  opera  as  manager  and  devote 
my  future  life  absolutely  to  purely  musical  work  as  a 
symphonic  conductor  and,  as  I  hoped,  also  as  composer. 
The  harassing  occupation  of  “managing”  singers  proved 
increasingly  distasteful  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  too 
good  a  musician  and  artist  to  waste  my  time  with  such 
things  in  which  the  only  advantage  could  be  a  possible 
pecuniary  gain. 

I  found  that  many  singers  were  like  children  with  no 


MATHILDE  MARCHESI  NELLIE  MELBA 


* 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  125 


clear  conception  of  right  or  wrong.  Their  constant  life 
in  close  proximity  to  each  other  at  rehearsals  and  per¬ 
formances  often  begets  an  exaggerated  conception  of 
themselves  and  their  importance  to  the  world.  They 
think  that  as  their  contact  with  the  public  is  only  over 
the  footlights,  where  they  receive  enthusiastic  acclaim  for 
their  artistic  representations,  the  public  literally  exists 
only  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  them  sing,  and  they 
willingly  ignore  the  fact  that  the  public  may  have  other 
interests,  such  as  family,  finance,  politics,  or  religion  to 
claim  its  attention.  As  it  is  important  for  a  manager 
not  only  to  maintain  a  balance  in  his  ledger  but  to  seek 
the  best  results  that  a  disciplined  ensemble  may  attain, 
he  cannot  always  be  in  harmony  with  all  the  individual 
desires  and  demands  of  his  artists.  He  must  often  cast 
his  opera  in  opposition  to  their  personal  pride,  and  I  have 
letters  to-day  from  several  of  the  greatest  artists  of  my 
company  insisting  that  they  must  leave  or  break  their 
contracts  because  I  had  wounded  their  deepest  sensi¬ 
bilities  in  putting  so  and  so  in  the  role  which  they  claimed 
for  their  very  own. 

I  found  that  some  of  them  even  indulged  in  occasional 
efforts  at  petty  blackmailing.  One  of  my  tenors,  who 
shall  be  nameless,  had  a  clause  in  his  contract  that  he 
should  not  be  called  upon  to  sing  Tristan  the  day  after  a 
very  long  railway  journey.  We  had  played  in  Cleve¬ 
land,  giving  a  “Lohengrin”  performance  in  which,  how¬ 
ever,  the  other  tenor  had  appeared,  and  took  a  night 
train  in  comfortable  sleeping-cars  in  one  of  which  my 
tenor  occupied  a  drawing-room  to  Pittsburgh,  which  is, 
as  my  reader  is  aware,  a  distance  of  only  1 50  miles  or  so. 
As  we  left  Cleveland  my  friend  the  tenor  appeared  in  my 
drawing-room,  and,  calling  attention  to  the  clause  in  his 


126 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


contract  relating  to  Tristan  and  a  “long”  railway  trip, 
insisted  that  he  could  not  sing  Tristan  the  following  day 
in  Pittsburgh  without  endangering  his  voice.  But  if  I 
would  pay  him  five  hundred  dollars  extra  he  would  take 
the  great  risk  of  injuring  his  voice  and  would  agree  to 
sing.  Naturally  I  was  furious  and  told  him  politely  but 
firmly  what  I  thought  of  him,  and  then  sent  for  my  other 
tenor  and  told  him  that  his  rival  was  trying  to  blackmail 
me  and  I  suggested  to  him  that  if  he  would  sing  Tristan 
for  me  in  spite  of  his  having  sung  Lohengrin  the  night 
before,  I  would  consider  it  as  a  performance  outside  of 
his  guarantee.  Needless  to  say  he  jumped  at  the  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  gaining  an  extra  six  hundred  dollars  and  at  the 
same  time  “putting  one  over”  on  his  hated  rival.  I  then 
went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly  on  a  pillow  made  downy 
by  a  deed  well  done. 

Next  morning  I  received  word  from  tenor  No.  i  that 
he  had  changed  his  mind,  was  feeling  very  well,  and 
would  sing,  but  I  very  haughtily  told  him  that  it  was  too 
late  and  that  I  had  already  made  other  arrangements. 

So  far  this  story  seems  a  wonderful  example  of  virtue 
triumphant  and  vice  defeated,  but,  alas,  life’s  problems 
do  not  always  work  out  that  way !  During  the  day  my 
dramatic  soprano  who  was  to  have  sung  Isolde  became 
hoarse  and  the  opera  had  to  be  changed,  so  that  all  my 
carefully  reared  structure  of  righteousness  and  meting 
out  of  punishment  to  the  guilty  one  fell  to  the  ground 
with  a  very  dull  thud. 

This  is  only  one  of  many  such  instances,  some  of  them 
childish  and  others  really  wicked.  But  the  most  unmoral 
thing  about  it  is  that  when  the  culprits  were  great  art¬ 
ists,  no  matter  how  much  they  enraged  me  by  their 
wickedness,  after  they  had  appeared  again  triumphantly 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  127 


as  Siegfried  or  Isolde  I  would  often  become  so  enthusi¬ 
astic  over  their  work  that  their  slate  would  be  washed 
clean  and  I  was  ready  to  forgive  them  again  and  to  begin 
anew.  Such  is  the  power  of  art,  and  a  grateful  public 
will  always  be  willing  to  remember  only  the  artistic  up¬ 
lift  which  they  have  received  from  the  artist  and  forget 
his  personal  weaknesses. 

Naturally  my  strictures  apply  only  to  certain  of  the 
singers.  There  were  many  who  were  always  honorable 
in  their  relations  with  me.  Among  the  most  devoted  of 
the  members  of  my  company  I  should  mention  the  sing¬ 
ers  of  the  chorus.  Many  of  these  had  been  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  in  the  German  opera  days.  Their  salaries  were 
small,  but  if  one  of  their  number  fell  ill  or  suffered  other 
misfortune,  none  so  quick  as  they  to  help,  and  they  al¬ 
ways  endured  the  hardships  of  travel  with  great  good 
humor  and  unfailing  courtesy  and  decency  toward  me. 

Among  other  reasons  that  impelled  me  finally  to  give 
up  the  opera  was  the  realization  how  comparatively 
seldom  absolute  artistic  perfection  can  be  obtained  at  a 
stage  performance.  There  are  so  many  people  concerned 
in  it  that  it  is  almost  impossible  always  to  obtain  a  cast 
which  is  thoroughly  satisfactory,  and  one  “second  rater” 
can  spoil  an  ensemble.  Still  another  problem  was  the 
question  of  stage  illusion.  I  gave  this  a  great  deal  of  atten¬ 
tion  and  study,  and  spent  a  great  deal  of  money  on  scenery 
and  lighting.  I  examined  the  best  inventions  in  this  di¬ 
rection  in  the  opera-houses  of  Germany  and  imported 
many  of  them.  I  was  the  first  to  bring  over  the  very 
clever  swimming-machines  used  in  Dresden  by  the  Rhine 
Maidens  in  “Rhinegold.”  But  Wagner’s  demands  on  the 
stage  are  so  extraordinary  that  a  real  illusion  is  not  often 
possible.  His  music  excites  the  imagination  and  is  often 


128 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


all  sufficient.  One  can  see  the  glorious  flames  crackling 
and  burning  around  the  sleeping  Brunhilde  when  one 
hears  an  orchestra  of  a  hundred  playing  the  music  of  the 
“Fire  Charm,”  but  how  seldom  does  a  stage  performance 
enhance  this  illusion!  The  Brunhilde  may  be  too  big  and 
too  fat,  or  the  light  of  the  flames  may  too  clearly  show 
that  the  scenery  is  but  painted  canvas  and  pasteboard 
after  all,  and  our  sophisticated  eyes  know  only  too  well 
how  the  plumber’s  steam-pipes  convey  the  steam  that  is 
intended  to  simulate  the  smoke  of  the  flames  from  the 
boiler  in  the  cellar.  It  sometimes  seemed  to  me,  after 
striving  in  vain  to  carry  out  Wagner’s  ideal  of  a  union  of 
all  the  arts  in  order  to  produce  a  new  and  perfect  art 
form  (the  “music-drama”),  as  if  this  great  genius  had 
really  committed  a  gigantic  mistake,  and  as  if  the  very 
artistic  illusion  and  semblance  of  verity  was  destroyed 
by  the  scenic  paraphernalia. 

Of  course  there  were  performances  over  which  a  happy 
star  seemed  to  shine  and  which  now  and  then  gave  us 
complete  satisfaction  and  happiness.  But  the  static 
quality  of  scenery  became  to  me  more  and  more  a  hin¬ 
drance  to  an  imagination  ready  to  soar  on  the  wings  of  the 
music. 

I  carried  on  my  opera  company  for  another  year  in 
conjunction  with  Mr.  Charles  Ellis,  and  then  definitely 
resolved  to  cease  all  managerial  activities  and  to  confine 
myself  absolutely  to  purely  musical  work.  It  took  me 
some  time  to  arrive  at  this  decision,  as  opera  work  has 
also  a  very  fascinating  side,  and  I  had  made  real  friends 
with  many  of  my  singers. 

I  had  found  Ellis  to  be  a  delightful  partner.  He  had 
had  years  of  experience  as  manager  of  the  Boston  Sym¬ 
phony  Orchestra,  and  his  equable  temperament  and  fair- 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  129 


mindedness  had  made  him  many  friends.  I  sold  to  him 
my  share  in  all  our  scenery,  costumes,  and  properties  as 
he  wished  to  continue  operatic  work  with  Madame  Melba 
as  his  principal  star,  and  I  agreed  to  conduct  a  limited 
number  of  Wagner  performances  for  him  in  Philadelphia 
during  the  following  season. 

After  the  four  hectic  years  I  had  spent  with  the  Dam- 
rosch  Opera  Company  I  was  glad  of  such  an  opportunity 
to  take  stock  of  the  past  and  cogitate  on  the  future. 

My  wife  and  I  rented  the  old  Butler  place  in  West¬ 
chester  County,  near  Hartsdale — a  lovely  old  mansion 
surrounded  by  dark  pine  forests  and  with  the  little  Bronx 
River  trickling  through — and  there  we  spent  most  of  the 
winter  until  May.  I  wrote  a  violin  sonata  there  and  en¬ 
joyed  the  tranquillity  of  a  life  freed  from  operatic  worries 
and  excitements. 

In  1900  I  was  once  more  tempted  into  the  field  of  opera, 
but  this  time  it  carried  with  it  no  managerial  or  financial 
responsibility. 

Maurice  Grau  was  at  that  time  the  lessee  of  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House.  Abbey  had  died  a  few  years  be¬ 
fore  and  the  directors,  who  had  gradually  realized  that  it 
was  Grau  who  had  been  the  real  “man  behind  the  gun,” 
gave  him  and  a  small  group  of  financial  backers  the  lease 
of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  Grau  invited  me  to 
return  to  the  Metropolitan  as  conductor  for  the  Wagner 
operas.  He  had  at  that  time  a  strong  group  of  Wagnerian 
singers.  At  the  head  was  the  inimitable  Jean  de  Reszke, 
together  with  his  brother  Edouard.  Grau  had  also  taken 
over  from  my  company  Madame  Ternina,  David  Bisp- 
ham,  and  Madame  Gadski.  The  latter  had  been  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  Damrosch  Opera  Company  for  the  entire  four 
years  of  its  existence.  She  was  only  twenty-three  when  I 


13° 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


first  engaged  her,  possessor  of  a  lovely  voice,  and  an  in¬ 
defatigable  worker.  There  were  weeks  on  our  Western 
tours  when  she  would  appear  on  five  successive  days  as 
Elsa ,  Elizabeth,  Sieglinde,  and  Eva.  She  was  a  hard 
student  and  her  voice  developed  more  and  more.  During 
her  last  year  with  me  she  added  the  “Walkiire”  and 
“Siegfried”  Brunhildes  to  her  repertoire,  studying  them 
with  me,  partly  on  the  trains  while  travelling,  partly  in 
the  hotels  and  theatres  of  the  various  cities  we  visited. 
When  she  went  into  the  Grau  Company,  she  added  the 
“Gotterdammerung”  Brunhilde  and  Isolde,  thereby  com¬ 
pleting  the  entire  circle  of  Wagner  soprano  parts,  except 
Kundry. 

Jean  de  Reszke,  like  Lilli  Lehmann,  turned  to  the  Wag¬ 
nerian  roles  in  the  high  noon  of  his  operatic  career.  He 
had  made  his  fame  in  the  French-Italian  operas,  but  Wag¬ 
ner  attracted  him  irresistibly. 

I  remember  that  during  one  of  the  seasons  of  the  Dam- 
rosch  Opera  Company  we  were  playing  in  Boston  at  the 
Boston  Theatre  while  the  Abbey  and  Grau  Company 
were  performing  in  the  huge  Mechanic’s  Hall.  Jean  and 
Edouard  de  Reszke  attended  one  of  my  “ Siegfried”  per¬ 
formances  with  Max  Alvary  in  the  title  role.  They  ap¬ 
plauded  their  colleague  vociferously,  and  after  the  per¬ 
formance  Jean  lamented  to  me  that  he  was  compelled  to 
sing  nothing  but  Fausts  and  Romeos  and  Werthers,  while 
it  was  the  ambition  of  his  life  to  sing  Wagner.  The 
memory  of  his  extraordinary  impersonations  of  these  roles 
later  on  is  too  vivid  to  need  comment  from  me.  Illness 
kept  him  away  from  America  one  year,  and  when  he  re¬ 
turned  I  was  again  at  the  Metropolitan  as  conductor  of 
the  Wagner  operas.  It  was  a  joy  to  work  with  this  man. 
Great  artist,  courteous  gentleman,  and  generous  col- 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  13 1 


league,  and  (what  is  most  valuable  to  a  conductor)  in¬ 
defatigable  at  rehearsals.  His  return  was  like  the  tri¬ 
umphant  entry  of  a  victorious  monarch.  He  was  a  mar¬ 
vellous  mimic,  and  used  to  give  us  delicious  imitations  of 
the  various  artists  of  the  company  coming  into  his  dress¬ 
ing-room  to  offer  their  congratulations  after  his  first  re¬ 
appearance. 

De  Reszke  would  first  depict  the  French  tenor  col¬ 
league  who  in  polite,  reserved,  and  even  patronizing  ac¬ 
cents  would  say: 

“Vraiment,  mon  cher,  vous-avez  chante  tres  bien  ce 
soir,  tres  bien,  je  vous  assure !” 

Then  would  come  the  German  barytone  in  a  double- 
breasted  frock  coat  and  punctiliously  polite  manner, 
saying: 

“Erlauben  Sie  mir,  Herr  de  Reszke,  Ihnen  meine  grosse 
Hochachtung  aus  zu  driicken  fur  den  wirklich  ausge- 
zeichneten  Genuss  den  Sie  uns  heute  Abend  bereitet 
haben.” 

He  was  followed  by  the  Italian  barytone,  who  would 
rush  in  impulsively  and,  kissing  Jean  on  both  cheeks, 
would  exclaim: 

“Caro  mio,  carissimo!,,  followed  by  a  flood  of  Italian 
words. 

Then  came  the  real  climax  of  the  scene.  Enter  the  elec¬ 
trician  who,  thrusting  a  “horny  hand  of  toil”  into  that  of 
de  Reszke,  would  exclaim  in  real  “Yankee”  accents: 

“Jean,  you  done  fine!” 

Edouard  de  Reszke,  the  huge  bass  brother  with  the 
heart  of  a  child  and  an  imperturbable  good  nature,  was 
an  equally  good  mimic.  But  his  wonderful  stories  and 
impersonations  were  of  a  decidedly  Rabelaisian  character 
and  will  not  bear  repetition  here. 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


132 

With  these  two  well-corseted  but  un-Corsican  brothers, 
Madame  Ternina  or  Madame  Nordica,  Madame  Schu- 
mann-LIeink,  and  David  Bispham  we  gave  performances 
of  “Tristan”  which  came  as  near  perfection  as  I  ever 
hope  to  witness. 

Madame  Nordica  had  been  for  years  a  so-called 
“utility”  singer  at  the  Metropolitan.  She  had  been 
trained  in  the  French-Italian  repertoire,  and  while  her 
voice  was  beautiful  she  had  not  yet  achieved  full  stardom, 
perhaps  because  she  was  American  born  and  lacked  the 
European  cachet,  which  at  that  time  was  more  important 
than  it  is  to-day.  She  was  not  by  nature  musically  gifted 
and  was  able  to  learn  a  role  only  by  the  hardest  and  most 
painful  work  of  endless  repetition  and  rehearsals.  But 
her  ambition  was  boundless — she  bided  her  time  and, 
like  Lilli  Lehmann,  gradually  worked  herself  into  the 
Wagner  repertoire.  Realizing  its  advertising  value,  she 
offered  herself  to  Madame  Cosima  Wagner  for  the 
“Lohengrin”  production  at  Bayreuth.  She  meekly  ac¬ 
cepted  every  instruction  given  her  there  during  the 
months  of  preparations,  no  matter  how  meticulous  or 
artificial  some  of  them  seemed  to  her,  and  the  success 
which  she  obtained  there  launched  her  successfully  on 
her  career  as  a  Wagner  singer.  I  trained  her  in  the 
Brunhildes  as  well  as  Isolde  and  was  amazed  at  the  way  in 
which  she  achieved  through  hard  work  what  nature  gives 
to  others  overnight. 

I  remember  her  coming  to  Philadelphia  to  sing  “Got- 
terdammerung”  with  my  company.  She  arrived  the 
previous  day  and  I  found  her  still  very  uncertain  in  the 
second  act,  which  is  rhythmically  very  difficult.  I  sat 
down  with  her  at  eight  o’clock  that  evening  and  we  went 
over  that  second  act  again  and  again  until  about  four 


MARIANNE  BRANDT  LILLIAN  NORDICA 


* 


THE  DAMROSCH  OPERA  COMPANY  133 


o’clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  ghastly  but  wonderful. 
At  ten  a.  m.  I  gave  her  an  orchestral  rehearsal  and  in  the 
evening  she  sang  the  role  with  perfect  assurance  and  with 
hardly  a  mistake. 

One  performance  of  “Tristan”  which  we  gave  with  the 
Grau  Company  in  Baltimore  at  the  Lyric  Theatre,  which 
has  perhaps  the  best  acoustics  of  any  auditorium  in  the 
country,  still  stays  vividly  in  my  memory.  At  the  close 
we  were  so  elated  that  all  concerned  kissed  each  other 
ecstatically  after  the  last  curtain  fell.  Those  are  the  rare 
moments  that  make  one  forget  the  many  times  perfec¬ 
tion  in  opera  seems  impossible  to  attain. 


XI 


ARTISTS 

I  have  written  elsewhere  of  my  first  visit  to  Europe 
after  my  father’s  death,  when  the  directors  of  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House  made  me  assistant  to  the  director, 
Edmund  C.  Stanton. 

I  had  gone  over  to  engage  German  singers  for  the  com¬ 
ing  season,  and  Emil  Fischer,  bass  from  the  Dresden 
Royal  Opera,  was  one  of  those  whose  contract  I  had 
ready  for  Stanton’s  signature  when  he  arrived  a  month 
later.  Emil  Fischer  had  become  discontented  with  his 
life  in  Dresden  and  in  signing  with  us  broke  his  contract 
with  the  Royal  Opera,  and  according  to  an  arrangement 
which  all  the  directors  of  the  various  German  opera- 
houses  had  with  each  other,  this  prevented  him  from 
ever  again  appearing  on  the  stage  of  a  German  opera- 
house.  He  remained  in  America  and  became  one  of  the 
main  props  of  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  Company, 
and  later  on  of  my  Damrosch  Opera  Company. 

His  voice  was  a  beautiful  basso  cantante  of  great  range 
and  vibrancy.  His  tone  production  was  perfect,  and  his 
powers  as  an  impersonator  equalled  his  singing.  He  will 
always  remain  in  my  memory  as  the  greatest  Hans  Sachs 
I  have  ever  heard.  He  imbued  the  part  with  a  nobility 
and  at  the  same  time  with  a  delightful  humor  that  no 
other  Hans  Sachs  has  quite  equalled. 

As  a  man  he  was  a  delicious  mixture  of  childishness, 
vanity,  generosity,  and  kindliness,  but  I  do  not  think 
that  any  emotions  of  life  touched  him  very  deeply. 

134 


ARTISTS 


l35 


In  dress  he  was  always  extremely  fastidious,  inclining 
toward  a  somewhat  flamboyant  love  of  extremes.  His 
neckties  were  rather  vivid,  his  trousers  perhaps  a  shade 
lighter  in  gray  than  the  most  harmonious  taste  would  de¬ 
mand.  He  had  a  highly  developed  chest,  of  which  he  was 
so  inordinately  proud  that  he  never  buttoned  the  upper 
part  of  his  waistcoat,  as  if  to  demonstrate  that  no  waist¬ 
coat  could  be  cut  large  enough  to  encompass  his  manly 
proportions. 

Of  the  value  of  money,  as  far  as  saving  it  was  con¬ 
cerned,  he  had  no  idea,  and  his  constant  effort  was  di¬ 
rected  toward  hiding  from  his  wife  the  fact  that  he  had 
money  in  his  pocket.  She  was  a  buxom  lady  somewhat 
older  than  himself  who,  in  her  youth,  had  been  a  trage¬ 
dienne  in  one  of  the  smaller  German  court  theatres.  She 
must  have  played  such  parts  as  Medea ,  and  continued  the 
rather  exaggerated  and  gloomy  articulation  of  her  words 
into  private  life  and  through  all  the  years  that  followed 
her  final  exit  from  the  stage.  Whenever  she  told  me:  “My 
Emil  is  not  well  to-day.  I  have  made  for  him  a  plate  of 
beef  soup  into  which  I  have  boiled  four  pounds  of  beef,” 
it  boomed  upon  my  ears  like  Shakespearian  blank  verse 
or  like  a  Greek  tragedy  of  Sophocles.  I  think  that  she 
annoyed  Emil  excessively,  and  that  he  was  happiest  when 
he  could  get  away  from  her  no  doubt  excellent  control 
and  find  enjoyment  among  a  circle  of  boon  companions. 

I  recall  that  when  he  was  a  member  of  my  opera  com¬ 
pany  I  paid  him  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  an  appear¬ 
ance,  with  about  twelve  appearances  a  month  guaranteed, 
but  he  insisted  that  in  the  written  contract  I  should  make 
it  only  two  hundred  dollars  an  appearance  and  give  him 
the  other  fifty  in  cash.  He  used  this  subtle  method  in 
order  to  have  about  six  hundred  dollars  a  month  spending 


136 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


money  of  which  his  wife  should  know  nothing.  It  was  I 
who  had  to  endure  the  complaints  from  her,  which  ran 
something  like  this:  “I  do  not  know  why  my  Emil  is  so 
badly  paid  while  all  the  others  get  these  enormous  sal¬ 
aries.  My  Emil  sings  better  than  any  of  them  and  he 
has  to  be  content  with  only  two  hundred  dollars  an  ap¬ 
pearance  !”  And  I  would  sit  by  feeling  very  guilty,  and 
yet,  from  that  horrid  loyalty  which  one  man  has  for  an¬ 
other,  not  daring  to  exculpate  myself  by  condemning  him. 

At  one  time  in  Chicago  I  accompanied  him  into  a 
haberdasher’s  shop  as  he  wished  to  buy  a  necktie.  He 
selected  one  the  price  of  which  was  two  dollars  and  a 
half,  and  then  superbly  handed  the  astonished  clerk  a 
five-dollar  bill,  saying  grandiloquently:  “You  may  keep 
the  change !” 

He  was  a  great  gourmet,  and  every  now  and  then  would 
give  a  banquet  at  his  house  to  his  fellow  artists,  with  in¬ 
terminable  courses  and  all  manner  of  wines.  Needless  to 
say  he  did  not  save  anything  from  his  earnings  and  there 
came  years,  as  he  grew  older  and  his  voice  left  him,  when 
he  had  to  turn  to  teaching.  But  he  never  changed  his 
habits  and  his  appearance  was  just  as  carefully  gotten  up 
as  in  former  years.  Finally  came  the  time  when  he  was 
really  in  want,  and  I  assisted  Mr.  Flagler,  who  was  also 
an  old  admirer  of  his,  in  getting  up  a  benefit  for  him  at 
the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  The  directors  very  gen¬ 
erously  gave  the  use  of  the  house,  many  of  the  stock¬ 
holders  bought  their  boxes,  and  the  climax  of  the  per¬ 
formance  was  the  appearance  of  dear  old  Fischer  in  his 
greatest  role  of  Hans  Sachs  in  the  third  act  of  “Die 
Meistersinger.”  A  very  good  sum  was  realized  with 
which  we  bought  an  annuity  for  him.  He  was  then,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  seventy-four  (his  wife  had  died  several  years  be- 


ARTISTS 


i37 


fore),  and  a  ten-year  annuity  seemed  to  us  the  best  way 
of  taking  care  of  him  without  giving  him  an  opportunity 
to  squander  his  money.  He  was  delighted,  and  the  first 
thing  he  did  on  the  strength  of  his  new  wealth  was  to 
marry  a  young  lady  from  the  chorus,  who,  however,  I 
believe  took  excellent  care  of  him  until  he  died. 

During  the  second  year  of  the  Damrosch  Opera  Com¬ 
pany,  while  we  were  in  St.  Louis  and  just  the  day  be¬ 
fore  Fischer  was  to  sing  Hans  Sachs ,  a  telegram  arrived 
saying  that  his  wife  was  very  ill  and  was  not  expected  to 
live  more  than  eight  hours.  Frau  Alvary  insisted  that  I 
must  make  him  go  to  New  York  to  see  her.  He  did  not 
want  to  go.  He  had  not  been  on  particularly  pleasant 
terms  with  her,  he  knew  he  could  not  arrive  in  time  to 
see  her  alive,  and  besides  that  he  knew  also  that  I  had 
no  substitute  to  sing  Hans  Sachs  for  him  and  that  the 
cancellation  of  the  opera  would  cost  me  about  five  thou¬ 
sand  dollars.  But  Frau  Alvary,  who  seemed  quite  ready 
to  insist  on  reasons  of  sentiment  when  her  own  purse 
was  not  concerned,  so  bedevilled  us  both  that  I  finally, 
being  still  young  and  sentimental,  decided  that  he  should 
go.  I  was  therefore  compelled  to  change  the  programme 
at  the  last  moment  and  to  substitute  single  acts  from 
different  operas,  which,  of  course,  was  a  very  costly  change, 
as  the  audience  in  St.  Louis  had  especially  looked  forward 
to  the  first  performance  of  “Die  Meistersinger.” 

The  news  of  a  possible  change  of  programme  had 
travelled  fast,  and  on  that  morning  I  received  a  visit 
from  a  young  singer,  Gerhardt  Stehmann,  who  a  year 
before  had  come  to  St.  Louis  with  a  little  German  opera 
company  which  had  promptly  stranded,  leaving  him 
without  a  job.  He  had,  however,  continued  to  live  there, 
acting  in  occasional  German  plays  and  teaching  Latin, 


1 


138 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


as  he  was  a  man  of  excellent  education.  He  asked  me  if 
I  could  not  give  him  a  place  in  my  company.  I  found  him 
to  be  an  excellent  singer,  but  above  all  a  man  musically 
so  gifted  that  he  could  learn  an  entire  role  in  a  few  hours. 
He  learned  the  entire  third  act  of  “Die  Meistersinger” 
overnight,  so  that  I  was  able  at  least  to  present  that 
to  my  St.  Louis  audience.  I  immediately  engaged  him 
as  a  permanent  member  of  my  company,  and  he  re¬ 
mained  with  me  until  its  dissolution  three  years  later, 
when  he  returned  to  Germany  and  was  grabbed  by 
Mahler  for  the  Imperial  opera  at  Vienna,  where  he  has 
been  ever  since.  He  literally  knew  and  sang  every  bass 
and  barytone  part  in  the  Wagner  operas  and  music  dramas. 
His  Beckmesser  in  “Die  Meistersinger”  was  a  master¬ 
piece  of  delineation,  and  no  one  could  depict  this  nasty, 
carping,  jealous,  and  vain  person  in  so  convincing  a 
fashion  as  he.  But  if  the  exigencies  of  the  moment  de¬ 
manded  it,  he  was  just  as  able  to  sing  Hans  Sachs ,  Pog - 
ner,  Kothner ,  or  any  other  of  the  good  old  burghers  of 
that  opera.  In  “Tannhauser”  he  was  equally  at  home 
as  Landgrave  or  Biterolj,  but  his  most  remarkable  feat 
of  learning  a  part  quickly  was  performed  in  New  York 
one  spring.  The  German  composer,  Xaver  Scharwenka, 
was  at  that  time  living  in  New  York  as  piano  virtuoso 
and  teacher.  He  had,  years  before,  composed  an  opera 
which  he  was  anxious  to  perform,  and  William  Steinway 
and  others  asked  me  if  I  would  let  him  have  my  opera 
company  for  this  purpose,  so  that  he  could  conduct  it 
himself  at  an  extra  performance.  I  agreed  and  a  good 
cast  was  selected.  The  tenor  part  was  to  have  been  sung 
by  Ernest  Krauss,  a  rather  conceited  heroic  tenor  who, 
not  finding  the  part  to  his  liking,  pleaded  hoarseness  only 
the  day  before  the  performance.  There  was,  of  course, 


ARTISTS 


i39 


no  substitute,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  performance  would 
have  to  be  cancelled,  which  would  have  been  a  cruel  ex¬ 
perience  for  the  composer.  To  my  astonishment  Steh- 
mann  appeared  and  said  very  simply:  “Give  me  the  part 
and  I  will  learn  it  for  to-morrow  night.”  When  I  inter¬ 
posed,  “But  this  is  a  tenor  part  and  you  are  a  bass  bary¬ 
tone,”  he  answered:  “Give  it  to  me.  I  think  I  can  trans¬ 
pose  a  few  of  the  high  notes  and  can  at  least  save  the  per¬ 
formance.”  Scharwenka,  overjoyed,  gave  him  the  part 
and  he  sang  and  acted  it  the  following  evening  without  a 
mistake — a  truly  remarkable  feat. 

I  grew  very  fond  of  him,  not  only  because  of  his  musi- 
cianly  qualities  but  also  because  as  a  man  he  was  so  sim¬ 
ple  and  honorable,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  later  on  that 
he  had  made  an  excellent  position  for  himself  in  Vienna. 

This  summer  of  1922, 1  visited  Vienna  again  after  many, 
many  years.  I  felt  that  the  war  should  be  completely 
over  for  us  and  that  we  should  seek  in  every  way  to  re¬ 
establish  cultural  relations  with  our  former  enemies. 

I  found  Stehmann  still  at  the  Vienna  opera,  now  no 
longer  called  Kaiserliche  but  Staats-Oper.  It  was  a  joy  to 
see  him  again,  but  the  war  had  brought  to  him  also  great 
misfortune !  He  told  me  that  from  his  savings,  while  a 
member  of  my  opera  company  and  from  subsequent 
savings  in  Vienna,  he  had  bought  a  house  with  several 
acres  of  land  in  the  Austrian  Tyrols.  With  tears  in  his 
eyes  he  showed  me  photographs  of  this  property.  The 
house  was  charmingly  situated  in  a  picturesque  valley 
with  the  Tyrolean  Alps  beyond.  After  the  war  this  ter¬ 
ritory  was  taken  over  by  Italy;  and  that  government, 
wishing  to  drive  out  the  Austrians  and  settle  the  land 
with  Italians,  had  compelled  Stehmann  to  “sell”  his  prop¬ 
erty  for  a  sum  fixed  by  them.  He  had  no  choice  and  the 


140 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


price  which  he  received  amounted  to  about  thirty-seven 
thousand  five  hundred  kronen,  which  happened  to  be  the 
amount  I  had  paid  that  morning  for  a  pair  of  shoes — at 
the  present  valuation  about  three  dollars  and  seventy 
cents !  The  Poles  claim  that  Bismarck  pursued  the  same 
policy  in  Posnia  when  Prussia  endeavored  to  suppress 
Polish  national  aspirations,  by  forcing  them  to  sell  their 
lands  to  the  Prussian  Junkers. 

I  was  sorry  on  arriving  in  Vienna  not  to  see  once  more 
the  venerable  old  singer,  Marianne  Brandt,  but  she  had 
died,  aged  eighty-four,  during  the  previous  winter.  In 
1884-85  she  had  been  one  of  the  main  props  of  my  fath¬ 
er’s  inaugural  German  opera  season;  and  her  emotional 
intensity  in  “Fidelio”  and  as  the  mother  in  “Le  Pro- 
phete”  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  our  public.  Na¬ 
ture  had  not  endowed  her  with  beauty  of  face  or  figure, 
and  she  always  insisted:  “I  have  been  a  virtuous  woman 
all  my  life  because  I  am  so  ugly  that  no  man  would  ever 
look  at  me.” 

Wagner  had  invited  her  to  Bayreuth  to  sing  the  part 
of  Kundry  in  “  Parsifal,”  but  whether  because  of  her  lack 
of  beauty  or  because,  as  she  thought,  of  terrible  intrigues 
on  the  part  of  Madame  Materna,  she  sang  the  role  only 
once  and  always  remained  exceedingly  jealous  of  Madame 
Materna,  whose  rather  amplitudinous  charms,  she  in¬ 
sisted,  had  completely  hypnotized  Wagner. 

She  simply  adored  my  father  and  his  single-minded 
idealism,  and  the  spirituality  of  his  character  appealed  to 
her  to  such  an  extent  that  she  was  willing  to  undergo  any 
amount  of  work  and  to  sing  any  role  which  he  wanted  of 
her,  whether  it  were  a  star  part  or  one  of  the  Valkyries 
in  “Walkiire.”  After  his  death  she  was  inconsolable,  and 
always  went  on  the  anniversary  to  Woodlawn  Cemetery 


ARTISTS 


141 

to  deposit  a  wreath  on  his  grave.  She  also  sought  to 
demonstrate  her  veneration  for  his  memory  by  helping 
me  in  every  way  possible,  both  as  superb  artist  and  as  one 
well  versed  in  the  practical  side  of  operatic  life  through 
years  of  experience  in  Vienna  and  at  the  Royal  Opera  in 
Berlin.  She  always  called  me  “Mein,  Sohn,”  and  her 
encouragement  and  faith  in  my  future  as  a  musician  dur¬ 
ing  many  trying  times  can  never  be  forgotten  by  me. 

She  had  a  delightful  sense  of  humor,  but  also  a  very 
quick  temper,  and  I  remember  her  telling  me  one  day 
that  she  had  received  a  notice  from  the  New  York  Post- 
Office  Department  that  a  registered  letter  was  awaiting 
her  down  in  the  General  Post-Office  at  City  Hall.  She 
went  there  and  inquired  at  the  proper  window  for  her 
letter. 

“Yes,”  said  the  official,  “we  have  it  here.  Have  you 
got  some  document  to  prove  that  you  are  Marianne 
Brandt? — a  letter,  a  bank-book,  or  a  passport?” 

“I  have  none  of  these  things,  but  I  am  Marianne 
Brandt  and  I  want  that  letter.” 

“I  am  sorry,  madame,  but  the  rules  are  strict,  and  you 
will  have  to  bring  some  one  to  identify  you.” 

By  this  time  Brandt  was  in  a  state  of  high  indignation. 
“You  will  not  give  me  the  letter?  I  will  prove  to  you 
that  I  am  Marianne  Brandt!”  And  then  she  proceeded 
with  full  voice  to  sing  the  great  cadenza  from  her  princi¬ 
pal  aria  in  “Le  Prophete.”  Her  glorious  voice  echoed 
and  re-echoed  through  the  vaulted  corridors  of  the  post- 
office.  Men  came  running  from  all  sides  to  find  out  what 
had  happened  and  finally  the  agitated  official  handed  her 
the  letter,  saying:  “Here  is  your  letter,  but  for  God’s 
sake  be  quiet!” 

She  finally  retired  from  the  stage  to  her  old  home  in 


142 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Vienna  and  gave  of  her  art  with  both  hands  to  a  group 
of  devoted  pupils.  During  the  war  I  heard  from  one  of 
them  that,  owing  to  the  destitute  condition  existing  in 
Vienna,  she  was  in  real  want,  but  she  promptly  returned 
the  check  we  sent  her  and  in  a  very  sweet  letter  ad¬ 
dressed  as  usual  to  “Mein  Sohn”  assured  me  that  she 
did  not  need  any  money,  that  she  did  not  expect  to  live 
much  longer,  and  that  she  thought  she  could  hold  out 
without  receiving  any  alms  from  her  friends.  We  did 
succeed,  however,  in  sending  her  food  which  she  shared 
with  others. 

One  of  the  singers  whom  I  engaged  for  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House  during  my  first  visit  to  Germany 
and  who  afterward  achieved  great  fame  was  Max  AI- 
vary,  a  young  lyric  tenor  at  the  Weimar  Ducal  Opera 
House.  He  was  the  son  of  the  well-known  German 
painter,  Andreas  Achenbach,  of  good  education,  gentle¬ 
manly  bearing,  and  a  refined  artistic  taste.  He  was  also 
exceedingly  good  looking.  As  a  singer  he  was  very  un¬ 
even,  although  he  had  studied  with  the  Italian  master, 
Lamperti.  At  first  we  paid  him  only  a  hundred  dollars 
a  night,  but  after  he  had  sung  minor  roles  for  a  few  months 
Anton  SeidI  chose  him  to  create  the  part  of  Siegfried ,  and 
in  that  role  he  made  a  success  so  instantaneous  as  to 
place  him  immediately  in  the  front  rank  of  German  opera- 
singers.  No  one  else  has  given  Siegfried  such  an  atmos¬ 
phere  of  boyish  innocence  and  picturesque  beauty.  The 
women,  bless  them,  simply  worshipped  him,  from  the 
sixteen-year-old  schoolgirl  to  the  matron  of  mature  and 
more  than  mature  age,  and  this  success  repeated  it¬ 
self  when  he  appeared  as  Siegfried  in  Germany,  Austria, 
and  England.  He  made  a  great  deal  of  money  and  spent 
it  lavishly.  His  armor  and  helmet  in  “Lohengrin”  were 


ARTISTS 


i43 


specially  made  for  him  out  of  silver  after  a  design  which 
he  had  drawn  himself.  The  stuffs  for  his  costumes  were 
often  specially  woven  for  him.  He  reached  the  climax  of 
his  career  when  he  was  chosen  by  Cosima  Wagner  to  sing 
Tannhauser  and  Tristan  at  Bayreuth.  At  that  time  this 
shrine  for  the  Wagnerite  had  already  become,  under  the 
guiding  and  autocratic  hand  of  the  widow  of  Wagner,  a 
highly  artificial  product.  I  saw  several  of  these  perform¬ 
ances  and  was  frankly  amazed  at  the  apparent  degenera¬ 
tion  since  the  days  of  Wagner.  Alvary,  who  had  a  great 
sense  of  humor,  gave  most  entertaining  descriptions  of  the 
rehearsals,  and  how,  for  instance,  in  slavish  imitation 
of  certain  rhythms  in  the  orchestra,  Tannhauser  and 
Wolfram  had  to  execute  a  kind  of  minuet  opposite  each 
other  in  order  to  fill  in  the  instrumental  introduction  be¬ 
fore  Wolfram  begins  his  famous  plea  to  Tannhauser: 
“AIs  du  im  kiihnen  Sange  uns  bestrittest.” 

In  the  spring  of  1891  Carnegie  Hall,  which  had  been 
built  by  Andrew  Carnegie  as  a  home  for  the  higher  mus¬ 
ical  activities  of  New  York,  was  inaugurated  with  a  music 
festival  in  which  the  New  York  Symphony  and  Oratorio 
Societies  took  part.  In  order  to  give  this  festival  a 
special  significance,  I  invited  Peter  IIjitsch  Tschaikow- 
sky,  the  great  Russian  composer,  to  come  to  America 
and  to  conduct  some  of  his  own  works.  In  all  my  many 
years  of  experience  I  have  never  met  a  great  composer  so 
gentle,  so  modest — almost  diffident — as  he.  We  all  loved 
him  from  the  first  moment — my  wife  and  I,  the  chorus, 
the  orchestra,  the  employees  of  the  hotel  where  he  lived, 
and  of  course  the  public.  He  was  not  a  conductor  by 
profession  and  in  consequence  the  technic  of  it,  the 
rehearsals  and  concerts,  fatigued  him  excessively;  but  he 
knew  what  he  wanted  and  the  atmosphere  which  ema- 


144 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


nated  from  him  was  so  sympathetic  and  love-compelling 
that  all  executants  strove  with  double  eagerness  to  divine 
his  intentions  and  to  carry  them  out.  The  performance 
which  he  conducted  of  his  Third  Suite,  for  instance,  was 
admirable,  although  it  is  in  parts  very  difficult;  and  as  he 
was  virtually  the  first  of  great  living  composers  to  visit 
America,  the  public  received  him  with  jubilance. 

He  came  often  to  our  house,  and,  I  think,  liked  to 
come.  He  was  always  gentle  in  his  intercourse  with 
others,  but  a  feeling  of  sadness  seemed  never  to  leave 
him,  although  his  reception  in  America  was  more  than 
enthusiastic  and  the  visit  so  successful  in  every  way  that 
he  made  plans  to  come  back  the  following  year.  Yet  he 
was  often  swept  by  uncontrollable  waves  of  melancholia 
and  despondency. 

The  following  year  in  May  I  went  to  England  with 
my  wife,  and  received  an  invitation  from  Charles  Villiers 
Stanford,  then  professor  of  music  at  Cambridge,  to  visit 
the  old  university  during  the  interesting  commencement 
exercises  at  which  honorary  degrees  of  Doctor  of  Music 
were  to  be  given  to  five  composers  of  five  different  coun¬ 
tries — Saint-Saens  of  France,  Boito  of  Italy,  Grieg  of  Nor¬ 
way,  Bruch  of  Germany,  and  Tschaikowsky  of  Russia. 

The  proceedings  proved  highly  interesting  and  enjoy¬ 
able.  As  each  recipient  of  the  honor  stepped  forward  in 
his  doctor’s  robe,  the  orator  addressed  him  in  a  discourse 
of  orotund  Latin  phrases,  praising  his  many  virtues  and 
accomplishments,  and  these  phrases  were  constantly  in¬ 
terrupted  by  the  clatter  of  facetious  remarks  and  re¬ 
quests  from  the  undergraduates  in  the  balcony,  all  this 
according  to  old  established  custom.  Sometimes  the  up¬ 
roar  became  so  great  that  the  presiding  officer  had  to 
arise  and  demand  “Silentium.” 


CAMILLE  SAINT-SAENS  PETER  TSCHAIKOWSKY 


«■ 


ARTISTS 


145 


Among  the  other  recipients  of  degrees  on  that  occasion 
was  Field-Marshal  Lord  Roberts,  Baron  of  Kandahar, 
who,  in  his  scarlet  uniform  beneath  his  doctor’s  robe,  re¬ 
ceived  of  course  the  most  uproarious  welcome.  At  that 
time  no  one  dreamed  that  twenty-three  years  later  he 
would  go  around  England  uttering  solemn  warning  against 
the  inevitability  of  war  with  Germany  and  bidding  Eng¬ 
land  gird  on  her  sword  and  prepare,  only  to  be  laughed 
at  as  an  alarmist  and  publicly  reprimanded  by  politicians 
for  seeking  to  arouse  such  feeling  against  a  “friendly 
power.” 

In  the  evening  a  great  banquet  was  given  in  the  re¬ 
fectory  of  the  college,  and  by  good  luck  I  was  placed  next 
to  Tschaikowsky.  He  told  me  during  the  dinner  that 
he  had  just  finished  a  new  symphony  which  was  different 
in  form  from  any  he  had  ever  written.  I  asked  him  in 
what  the  difference  consisted  and  he  answered:  “The 
last  movement  is  an  adagio  and  the  whole  work  has  a 
programme.” 

“Do  tell  me  the  programme,”  I  demanded  eagerly. 

“No,”  he  said,  “that  I  shall  never  tell.  But  I  shall 
send  you  the  first  orchestral  score  and  parts  as  soon  as 
Jurgenson,  my  publisher,  has  them  ready.” 

We  parted  with  the  expectation  of  meeting  again  in 
America  during  the  following  winter,  but,  alas,  in  Octo¬ 
ber  came  the  cable  announcing  his  death  from  cholera, 
and  a  few  days  later  arrived  a  package  from  Moscow  con¬ 
taining  the  score  and  parts  of  his  Symphony  No.  6,  the 
“  Pathetique.”  It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead.  I 
immediately  put  the  work  into  rehearsal  and  gave  it  its 
first  performance  in  America  on  the  following  Sunday. 
Its  success  was  immediate  and  profound.  We  gave  it 
many  repetitions  that  winter  and  I  have  played  it  since 


146 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


in  concerts  all  over  the  United  States.  Other  orchestras 
have  cultivated  it  with  equal  assiduity,  and  in  fact  for 
me  the  time  came  several  years  ago  when  I  cried  a  halt 
and  let  the  work  lie  fallow,  as  it  had  evidently  been  over¬ 
played  and  its  high-strung  rhythms  had  excited  the  nerves 
of  executants  and  audiences  so  often  that  they  were  in 
danger  of  being  overstrained. 

Ignace  Paderewski  made  his  first  appearance  in  Amer¬ 
ica  in  1891,  and  I  conducted  his  first  five  orchestral  con¬ 
certs.  He  came  under  the  auspices  of  Steinway  and  Sons, 
and  they  told  me  that  the  gross  receipts  for  the  first  con¬ 
cert  were  only  five  hundred  dollars !  His  playing  as  well 
as  his  personality,  however,  immediately  took  our  public 
by  storm,  and  I  do  not  think  that  since  the  days  of  Franz 
Liszt  there  has  been  any  other  travelling  virtuoso  in 
whom  the  man  was  as  fascinating  as  the  artist.  People 
who  have  wondered  how  it  was  possible  for  him  when 
the  Great  War  began  to  throw  himself  so  fully  equipped 
at  every  point  into  the  struggle  to  achieve  national  unity 
for  Poland,  do  not  realize  that  he  was,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  preparing  himself  for  just  this  opportun¬ 
ity  all  his  life.  He  had  always  dreamed  of  a  united 
and  independent  Poland.  He  knew  the  history  of  his 
people,  their  strength,  and  their  weakness.  It  is  said  that 
one  day  he  played  before  the  Czar  who,  congratulating 
him,  expressed  his  pleasure  that  a  “Russian”  should  have 
achieved  such  eminence  in  his  art.  Paderewski  answered: 
“I  am  a  Pole,  your  Majesty,”  and,  needless  to  say,  was 
never  again  invited  to  play  in  Russia.  His  mind  is  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  I  have  ever  come  in  contact 
with.  AH  the  world  knows  what  he  has  achieved  in 
music — his  inspired  interpretations,  his  prodigious  mem¬ 
ory,  and  the  subtle  range  of  colors  of  his  musical  palette, 


ARTISTS 


147 


but  not  so  many  know  of  his  interest  in  literature, 
philosophy,  and  history,  and  it  took  the  Great  War  to 
demonstrate  that  as  orator  and  statesman  he  ranks  as 
high  as  musician.  I  heard  him  make  a  speech  on  Poland 
during  the  Exposition  in  San  Francisco  in  1915  before  an 
audience  of  ten  thousand,  in  which  he  gave  so  eloquent  a 
survey  of  Poland’s  history  and  of  her  needs  and  rights, 
as  to  rouse  the  people  to  a  frenzy  of  enthusiasm,  and  I 
am  convinced  that  Poland  owes  her  national  existence 
to-day  to  his  statesmanship  and  to  the  sympathy  which 
his  personality  created  among  the  Allies  at  the  Versailles 
Conference.  I  believe  that  Colonel  House  pronounced 
him  to  be  the  greatest  statesman  of  the  Conference,  and 
it  was  only  the  cynical  Clemenceau  who  said  to  him: 
“M.  Paderewski,  you  were  the  greatest  pianist  in  the 
world  and  you  have  chosen  to  descend  to  our  level.  What 
a  pity !  ” 

When  he  first  came  to  America,  his  English  was  very 
incomplete  but  even  then  he  demonstrated  his  grasp 
of  it  in  unmistakable  fashion.  One  evening  he,  my 
wife,  and  I  dined  at  the  house  of  very  dear  mutual 
friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  E.  Cowdin,  in  Gramercy  Park. 
Cowdin  had  all  his  life  been  an  enthusiastic  polo  player, 
and  after  dinner  Paderewski  and  I  admired  some  hand¬ 
some  silver  trophies  that  he  had  won  and  that  were 
placed  in  the  dining-room.  I  said:  “You  see  the  differ¬ 
ence  between  you  and  Johnny  is  that  he  wins  his  prizes 
in  playing  polo  while  you  win  yours  in  playing  solo.” 

“Zat  is  not  all  ze  difference!”  Paderewski  immediately 
exclaimed  in  his  gentle  Polish  accents.  “I  am  a  poor 
Pole  playing  solo,  but  Johnny  is  a  dear  soul  playing 
polo.” 

He  is  highly  gifted  as  a  composer,  and  besides  a  very 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


148 

interesting  and  spiritual  symphony  I  remember  with 
keen  pleasure  his  opera  “Manru,”  which  Maurice  Grau 
brought  out  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  1902 
and  which  I  conducted.  I  cannot  remember  ever  hav¬ 
ing  worked  harder  toward  achieving  a  successful  premiere. 
The  orchestral  parts,  which  had  been  copied  in  Germany 
in  a  great  hurry,  arrived  so  full  of  mistakes  that  the  first 
rehearsals  were  an  agony  of  constant  stopping  and  cor¬ 
recting,  and  these  corrections  went  on  during  the  entire 
time  of  preparation,  and  I  believe  that  I  still  found  two 
inaccuracies  at  the  rehearsal  just  preceding  the  general 
rehearsal.  Again  and  again  I  took  some  of  the  worst 
parts  home  and  worked  late  into  the  night  going  through 
them  meticulously  myself,  and  comparing  them  with  the 
orchestral  score  in  an  endeavor  to  bring  order  out  of 
chaos.  The  opera  received  a  warm  welcome,  but  the 
libretto  was  lacking  somewhat  in  dramatic  interest;  and 
the  music,  with  all  its  genuine  charm  and  warmth,  was 
not  able  to  successfully  combat  this  lack. 

I  think  that  if  Paderewski  had  been  willing  to  sacrifice 
his  marvellous  career  as  a  piano  virtuoso  (and  that  would 
have  been  a  great  sacrifice)  he  would  have  become  one 
of  the  greatest  composers  of  our  time.  It  does  not  seem 
easy  to  unite  the  two  careers,  as  they  are  essentially  at 
war  with  each  other.  Liszt,  the  only  man  with  whom  I 
can  compare  Paderewski,  recognized  this  fact,  and  at 
forty  years  of  age  resolutely  turned  his  back  on  virtuoso- 
dom,  with  its  life  in  the  public  glare,  its  excitements, 
crowds,  and  emoluments,  in  order  to  devote  himself  to 
composition.  He  settled  in  the  little  town  of  Weimar, 
living  a  life  of  poverty,  and  never  again  touched  the 
piano  for  personal  gain.  Only  now  and  then  he  would 
play  in  public  in  order  to  gather  funds  for  the  Beethoven 


ARTISTS 


149 


monument  in  Bonn  or  for  some  great  charity.  And  yet 
it  is  universally  conceded  that  even  he  stopped  too  late 
and  that,  great  as  is  the  sum  total  of  his  contributions  to 
creative  art,  he  would  have  been  still  greater  and  able 
to  express  himself  more  genuinely  if  he  had  never  been 
“the  greatest  pianist  of  his  generation.” 

It  is  difficult  to  define  the  charm  with  which  the  artists 
of  Poland  seem  to  be  imbued  almost  beyond  any  other 
race.  It  is  more  than  a  social  gift.  It  is  not  the  result  of 
calculation  but  seems  to  be  a  combination  of  kindliness 
of  heart  and  good  breeding.  Madame  Marcella  Sembrich 
has  it  to  a  supreme  degree,  also  Jean  and  Edouard  de 
Reszke,  also  Tim  and  Joe  Adamowski,  Paul  Kochanski, 
and  my  old  friend  Alexander  Lambert,  and  if  the  new 
state  of  Poland  were  composed  only  of  such  of  the  Polish 
elect  as  I  have  just  mentioned  it  would  soon  become  the 
ideal  republic  of  the  world.  On  the  other  hand,  a  coun¬ 
try  composed  exclusively  of  musicians  might  not  make  a 
contented  population,  as  it  is  well  known  that  we  need 
an  audience  to  listen  to  us,  and  musicians,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  have  the  reputation  of  never  being  willing  to 
listen  to  each  other. 

I  do  not,  however,  mean  to  imply  that  the  Poles  are 
the  exclusive  possessors  of  personal  charm.  For  instance, 
I  do  not  know  of  any  man  who  has  it  in  greater  degree 
than  my  old  friend  Charles  Martin  Loeffler,  who  was 
born  in  Alsace,  received  his  musical  education  in  France, 
was  violinist  in  the  private  orchestra  of  a  Russian  grand 
duke  in  Nice,  and,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  came  to  America. 
My  father  immediately  became  very  fond  of  him,  and 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  when  we  always  had  chamber- 
music  at  home  in  which  my  father  played  first  violin 
and  Sam  Franko  second,  Martin  Loeffler  would  play  the 


150 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


viola.  I  liked  him  immensely  and  our  friendship  has 
lasted  through  the  years.  Our  birthdays  are  on  the  same 
day,  and  we  are  almost  of  an  age,  as  he  is  only  a  year 
older.  When  Higginson  formed  the  Boston  Orchestra 
under  George  Henschel,  LoefHer  migrated  to  Boston  and 
became  first  violin  and  second  concert  master.  At  the 
same  time  he  continued  his  studies  in  composition,  and 
has  since  become  one  of  our  foremost  American  com¬ 
posers.  For  years  he  has  lived  as  a  gentleman  farmer  in 
Medfield,  Massachusetts.  His  compositions  are  few  and 
far  between,  but  all  of  them  have  the  same  aristocratic 
conception,  refinement,  and  original  orchestration,  such 
as  a  man  can  write  who  has  spent  a  great  part  of  his  life 
in  the  orchestra  and  knows  its  literature  and  possibilities. 
His  letters,  exquisitely  penned,  rank  with  those  of 
Eugene  Ysaye,  and  that  is  high  praise,  as  Ysaye  is  the 
very  prince  of  letter-writers.  I  venture  to  insert  one  of 
LoefHer’s  here  because  it  treats  of  the  first  performance 
of  my  opera,  “  Cyrano,”  and  because  it  is  so  whole-hearted 
in  its  praise  and  so  gentle  but  discerning  in  its  criticisms 
of  the  weak  spots  in  my  work. 


Medfield,  Mass. 

Dear  Walter:  Sunday’  26  March>  I9’3' 

There  was  not  a  more  amazed  person  amongst  the  audience  last 
Thursday  than  your  old  friend  here.  Having  plowed  away  and 
wallowed  imstorm;ffor  some  time  on  my  own  One  Act  play,  I  know  of 
the  difficulties,  the  doubts  and  hazards  that  one  encounters  in  the 
business  of  writing  an  opera.  It  is  therefore  with  genuine  admiration, 
that  I  take  off  my  hat  and  bow  low  to  him,  who  could  write  the  Score 
of  Cyrano.  It  is  a  masterly  accomplishment  of  a  treacherous  task. 
I  did  not  see  you  on  that  exciting  night;  there  having  been  some  un¬ 
certainty  as  to  my  being  able  to  obtain  a  bed  on  the  i  o’clock  train, 
I  finally  had  to  give  up  the  pleasure  of  going  to  your  house.  I  press 
your  dear  old  hand  now  in  spirit  and  in  sincere  admiration. 


ARTISTS 


151 


Your  orchestration  sounded  superbly.  Your  choruses  blended 
wonderfully  with  the  orchestra  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  with  a 
slight  remaniement  and  raccourcissement,  Cyrano  will  give  great  joy 
to  many  in  the  future.  I  understand  that  you  have  already  made 
considerable  cuts,  still  do  I  advise  cutting  out  more.  Four  Acts 
is  a  long  proposition  and  some  of  the  best  things  come  in  the  last 
Act.  But  the  public  begins  to  tire  and  can  no  longer  thoroughly  en¬ 
joy  the  beauties  of  this  Act.  A  few  things  have  occurred  to  me  be¬ 
sides.  In  the  scene  on  the  balcony,  I  think  it  is  a  mistake  to  let 
Cyrano  say  what  Christian  shall  repeat  to  Roxane.  Is  this  not  what 
happens  in  Act  III,  “How  could  I  love  you  more,”  etc?  Would  it 
not  be  more  expressive  to  let  Cyrano  prompt  his  stupid  friend  in 
whispering  and  pantomimic  gesture?  Curiously  enough,  this  scene 
which  one  would  have  picked  out  as  “made  for  an  opera,”  was  per¬ 
haps  the  least  effective  part  of  the  Opera.  After  the  climb  to  his 
lady  love,  everything  is  again  admirable. 

Then,  in  the  last  act,  I  believe  if  you  were  to  shorten  Cyrano’s 
delirium  and  hasten  his  death  somewhat,  you  would  strengthen  and 
heighten  the  final  effect  of  your  work.  Cyrano  dies  hard  and  one 
thinks  of  the  nine-live-cat-death  of  Tristan !  All  this  may  only 
seem  long  coming  at  the  end  of  the  preceding  three  intense  hours. 
There  are  really  extraordinary  effects  in  this  final  Act  of  yours  and 
one  would  like  to  look  at  such  a  score  as  yours.  Probably,  like  all 
telling  things  in  this  world,  your  effects  are  obtained  through  simplest 
means. 

The  whole  work  is  to  me  a  delight  on  account  of  its  real  musician- 
ship — a  work  evolved  from  a  highly  sensitive,  very  intelligent  brain, 
that  has  absorbed  and  assimilated  much,  without  imitating  anybody 
or  anything. 

These  are  my  first  sincere  impressions  of  your  work,  to  which  I 
will  add  my  sentiments.  While  the  musician  listened  during  the 
hours  of  the  performance,  the  friend  in  him  was  carefully  kept  apart. 
When,  however,  the  musician’s  heart  began  beating  more  and  more 
warmly,  the  friend  and  the  musician  became  again  at  one  in  their  joy. 

Here  also  arises  the  reflection:  Where  did  you  or  where  does  any¬ 
body  acquire  mastery?  Do  the  gifted  themselves  really  know  what 
they  are  doing  and  is  Maeterlinck  right  when  he  makes  Melisande  say 
“Je  ne  sais  pas  ce  que  je  sais”? 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 52 


A  priori  I  shall  always  say:  There  must  be  Opera  in  English — but 
at  present  there  cannot  be,  as  nobody  knows  how  to  sing  in  it.  The 
performance  however  was  admirable.  Amato  was  superb  and  so 
was  the  orchestra,  chorus  and  old  Herty !  Hats  off  to  him  too  ! 

Kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Damrosch  in  which  Elise  joins  me. 

Believe  me,  dear  Walter,  as  ever  and  more  proudly  than  ever, 

Your  friend 

Ch.  M.  Loeffler. 

In  1891  I  was  asked  to  give  a  concert  for  the  Ortho¬ 
paedic  Hospital  in  which  my  friend,  Mrs.  John  Hobart 
Warren,  was  always  much  interested,  and  in  casting 
about  for  some  sensational  feature  which  would  draw  the 
public  I  conceived  the  idea  of  having  Eugene  Ysaye  and 
Fritz  Kreisler  play  the  Bach  concerto  for  two  violins. 
Ysaye  was  then  at  the  very  zenith  of  his  career  and 
Kreisler  had  just  come  to  America  as  a  young  violinist 
of  great  attainments  and  charm,  and  still  greater  promise 
for  the  future.  The  performance  of  the  Bach  concerto 
proved  all  that  I  had  hoped,  and  after  the  concert  Ysaye 
had  supper  with  me  at  the  old  Delmonico’s  in  Madison 
Square.  Ysaye  is  not  only  a  remarkable  artist  but  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  conversationalists  I  have  met,  and 
during  the  supper  he  proceeded  in  the  most  fascinating 
way  to  analyze  himself  and  Kreisler.  He  said:  “I  have 
arrived  at  the  top  and  from  now  on  there  will  be  a  steady 
decrease  of  my  powers.  I  have  lived  my  life  to  the  full 
and  burned  the  candle  at  both  ends.  For  some  time  I 
shall  make  up  in  subtlety  of  phrasing  and  nuance  what 
my  technic  as  a  violinist  can  no  longer  give,  but 
Kreisler  is  on  the  ascendant  and  in  a  short  time  he  will 
be  the  greater  artist.”  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  whether 
Ysaye’s  prophecy  has  come  true,  but  no  one  who  has 
heard  him  in  his  prime  can  forget  his  truly  gigantic  con- 


ARTISTS 


*53 


ception  of  the  Beethoven  concerto,  for  instance,  and  the 
mastery  with  which  he  poured  out  the  golden  flood  of 
his  music. 

In  1909  I  gave  a  Beethoven  cycle  at  which  I  per¬ 
formed  all  the  Beethoven  symphonies  and  other  smaller 
works  of  his  in  historical  sequence.  We  had  engaged 
Ysaye  to  play  the  Beethoven  Violin  Concerto,  but,  to 
my  astonishment,  he  sent  word  only  a  week  before  that 
he  must  first  play  a  violin  concerto  by  Vitali,  as  he  had 
to  get  his  fingers  into  proper  condition  before  playing 
the  Beethoven.  I  remonstrated  with  him  and  explained 
to  him  that  in  a  Beethoven  cycle  I  could  not  possibly 
give  a  concerto  by  Vitali,  even  to  oblige  Ysaye,  and  sug¬ 
gested  that  he  play  the  Vitali  concerto  to  himself  in  the 
greenroom  before  the  concert,  but  he  refused  to  accept 
this  amendment  and  I  was  ever  so  reluctantly  compelled 
to  cancel  his  appearance  in  the  cycle.  This  caused  a 
coolness  between  us  which  lasted  several  years  and  which 
I  regretted  exceedingly.  But  time  is  a  great  peacemaker. 
We  happened  to  meet  again  quite  casually  a  few  years 
later,  and  by  tacit  consent  this  little  contretemps  was 
completely  buried  and  we  are  as  good  friends  as  of  yore. 

Perhaps  the  most  important  and  interesting  great 
musician  of  France  whom  I  have  known  was  Camille 
Saint-Saens,  whom  I  met  in  1908  when  he  came  to  Amer¬ 
ica  on  a  concert  tour.  He  was  at  that  time  seventy  years 
of  age.  His  extraordinary  vitality  and  the  fluency  of  his 
playing  amazed  us  all,  and  America  outdid  itself  to  honor 
this  venerable  grand  maitre.  I  had  the  great  pleasure  of 
conducting  all  of  his  concerts  in  New  York  at  which  he 
played  his  five  piano  concertos,  an  extraordinary  feat  for 
a  man  of  his  age.  We  had  heard  so  many  stories  from 
French  musicians  of  his  “ nasty  temper”  at  rehearsals  and 


154 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


his  caustic  comments  on  this  or  that  phrasing  in  his  sym¬ 
phonies  or  concertos  that  we  were  all  very  agreeably 
disappointed  in  finding  him  genial,  cheerful,  and  grateful 
for  what  we  were  able  to  give  him.  He  even  insisted  on 
playing  the  organ  himself  at  my  performance  of  his 
Symphony  No.  3,  which  is  dedicated  to  the  memory  of 
Liszt.  I  have  always  considered  this  to  be  his  greatest 
work  in  that,  with  all  the  clarity  of  form  and  diction 
which  is  a  special  characteristic  of  his  style,  there  is  also 
a  deep  emotion  which  rises  in  the  last  movement  to  a 
triumphant  and  thrilling  climax. 

I  saw  him  again  in  Paris  during  the  war  in  the  summer 
of  1918,  and  reminded  him  of  a  visit  which  my  father  had 
paid  to  him  in  1876. 

“That  was  not  the  first  time  I  met  your  father,”  he 
quickly  rejoined.  “I  remember  very  well  meeting  him 
in  Weimar  in  1857  while  I  was  visiting  Liszt.” 

In  1920  my  second  daughter,  Gretchen,  was  to  be 
married  to  the  son  of  Judge  Finletter  of  Philadelphia. 
The  young  people  had  met  at  Chaumont,  France,  where 
Finletter  had  been  stationed  at  General  Headquarters 
after  the  armistice  and  while  Gretchen  and  her  friend, 
Mary  Schieffelin,  were  there  as  war  workers.  My  daugh¬ 
ter  agreed  enthusiastically  with  my  suggestion  that  the 
wedding  should  be  in  Paris  after  my  European  tour  with 
the  orchestra  was  finished,  and  this  to  them  highly  im¬ 
portant  event  was  carried  out  with  great  success  on  the 
17th  of  July,  the  ceremony  being  solemnized  at  the 
American  church  and  the  reception  held  at  my  hotel, 
the  “France  et  ChoiseuI,”  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore.  As  I 
had  come  to  this  hotel  for  so  many  years,  Monsieur 
Mantel,  the  directeur ,  and  all  the  employees  from  the 
chef  down,  helped  on  the  affair  with  an  enthusiasm  which 


ARTISTS 


1 55 


can  only  be  found  in  a  country  like  France,  where  all 
festivals  of  family  life  are  treated  with  tremendous  im¬ 
portance.  All  the  reception-rooms  down-stairs  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  courtyard,  which  had  been  charmingly 
framed  in  with  laurel-trees  and  filled  with  inviting-looking 
little  tables,  had  been  placed  at  our  disposal.  All  the 
employees  of  the  house — including  Leonie,  Francois, 
Pierre,  Adolph,  Theo,  Felice,  Madeleine,  Michel,  and 
Louis,  all  of  whom  I  had  known  during  the  war  and  even 
before — wore  large  white  boutonnieres  and  ribbons  in 
honor  of  the  occasion;  and  at  four  o’clock  about  a  hundred 
French  and  American  friends  began  to  arrive  from  the 
ceremony  at  the  church.  Among  these  was  my  old  friend 
Madame  Nellie  Melba,  who  had  come  over  from  London 
for  the  purpose,  and  “le  grand  maitre ”  Camille  Saint- 
Saens,  whom  all  the  hotel  employees  immediately  recog¬ 
nized  and  treated  with  great  and  fond  deference. 

As  Saint-Saens  entered  the  courtyard  he  turned  to  me 
and  said,  rather  testily:  “Mon  cher  ami,  pourquoi  est-ce 
que  vous  n’avez-pas  donne  une  de  mes  symphonies  dans 
un  de  vos  concerts  a  Paris  ce  printemps?”  For  a  mo¬ 
ment  I  was  nonplussed  what  to  answer.  We  had  given 
three  concerts  in  Paris  and  I  had  devoted  one  to  the 
“Eroica”  of  Beethoven,  and  the  other  two  to  the  Cesar 
Franck  D  Minor,  the  Mozart  “Jupiter,”  and  the  Dvorak 
“New  World”  symphonies,  but  Albert  Spalding,  my  solo¬ 
ist,  had  played  the  Saint-Saens  Violin  Concerto,  so  that  his 
name  had  been  represented  on  our  programmes.  Suddenly 
the  right  answer  came  to  me:  “Cher  maitre,  don’t  you 
know  that  during  the  war  I  played  your  great  Symphony 
No.  3  at  a  gala  concert  on  the  Fete  Nationale  at  the  Salle 
du  Conservatoire  for  the  benefit  of  the  Croix  Rouge,  and 
here  is  Monsieur  Cortot  who  played  the  piano  part  and 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


156 

here  Mademoiselle  Boulanger  who  played  the  organ.” 
(Both  of  them  were  luckily  standing  by  my  side  as  Saint- 
Saens  entered.)  Lie  was  completely  pacified  and  was 
carried  off  in  triumph  to  the  buffet  by  a  crowd  of  adoring 
French  musicians  in  order  to  offer  him  some  refreshment. 

Henri  Casadesus  told  me  afterward  that  when  Saint- 
Saens  arrived  at  the  buffet  he  said:  “I  am  thirsty.” 
“Here  is  some  champagne,”  said  Casadesus.  “No. 
That  is  too  cold,”  “Well,  here  is  chocolate.”  “No. 
That  is  too  hot,”  whereupon  he  took  the  glass  of  cham¬ 
pagne  and  poured  it  into  the  chocolate  and  drank  it 
down  with  evident  relish.  Pretty  good  for  a  man  then 
eighty-two  years  of  age ! 

Saint-Saens  had  always  preserved  a  great  adoration 
for  Liszt,  who  had  been  one  of  the  first  musicians  to  be¬ 
friend  him  in  his  early  days,  and  his  admiration  for  Liszt’s 
music  had  remained  much  greater  than  for  that  of  Wagner. 
In  fact,  during  the  war  the  majority  of  the  French  musi¬ 
cians  were  furious  at  his  chauvinistic  attitude  toward 
Wagner. 

It  is  told  that  when  Saint-Saens  was  still  a  very  young 
man  he  was  calling  on  Liszt  and  the  servant  asked  him  to 
wait  a  few  minutes  as  Liszt  was  engaged  in  another  room. 
Saint-Saens,  seeing  a  manuscript  orchestral  score  on  the 
piano,  sat  down  and  proceeded  with  his  marvellous 
musicianship  to  read  and  play  it  at  sight,  when  suddenly 
the  door  opened  and  Liszt  and  Wagner  rushed  in,  amazed 
at  hearing  the  intricate  harmonies  of  Wagner’s  “Rhein- 
gold”  so  marvellously  reproduced.  Wagner  had  just 
brought  the  score  to  Liszt  in  order  to  show  it  to  him. 

During  the  winter  of  1920-21  I  accepted  the  co-editor- 
ship  for  a  series  of  music  readers  to  be  used  in  our  public 
schools,  and  as  I  had  agreed  to  invite  a  small  group  of 


CAMILLE  SAINT-SAENS  AND  WALTER  DAMROSCH 
Erom  a  snapshot  taken  in  Paris  at  the  wedding  reception  of  Gretchen  Damrosch,  July  17,  1920 


ARTISTS 


157 


distinguished  French  and  English  composers  to  contribute 
some  songs  for  this  publication,  I  requested  Saint-Saens 
to  honor  us  with  two.  He  readily  complied,  and  in  the 
summer  of  1921  invited  me  to  come  to  his  apartment  as 
he  had  the  songs  all  ready.  When  I  called,  he  immediately 
sat  down  at  the  piano  and  from  his  very  neatly  written 
manuscript  played  them  for  me,  begging  me  to  observe 
that  he  had  made  the  accompaniment  exceedingly  simple 
in  order  that  “the  American  school-teachers  should  not 
be  too  much  puzzled  by  it.”  For  one  of  the  songs  com¬ 
posed  in  honor  of  the  aviators  of  the  war,  he  had  even 
written  the  words  himself,  and  for  the  other  he  had  taken 
words  by  La  Fontaine. 

He  called  at  my  hotel  in  August  of  1921.  He  seemed  to 
me  to  have  grown  more  feeble,  but  seeing  on  my  piano 
an  edition  of  Beethoven’s  piano  sonatas,  edited  by  von 
Biilow,  with  which  I  always  like  to  travel  as  I  find  the 
playing  of  these  sonatas  very  agreeable  and  restful  be¬ 
tween  the  inevitable  irritations  of  travel,  Saint-Saens 
suddenly  bristled  up  and  became  very  angry  at  a  certain 
rather  complicated  fingering  which  Billow  had  given  to  a 
piano  passage,  as  his  fingers  had  not  been  adapted  by  na¬ 
ture  to  rapid  playing. 

“This  is  the  way  it  should  be  played,”  said  Saint-Saens, 
as  he  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  proceeded  to  let  his 
fingers,  though  still  clad  in  gray  lisle  gloves,  run  up  the 
keys  with  incredible  swiftness,  like  little  gray  mice.  This 
extreme  dexterity  never  left  him.  I  had  heard  him  but 
a  month  before  at  a  musical  given  by  Widor  in  his  honor 
and  in  which  Saint-Saens  played  the  piano  part  in  his 
own  “Septet  with  Trumpet.”  His  fingers  literally  ran 
away  with  him,  and  every  time  there  was  a  quick  passage, 
he  accelerated  the  tempo  to  such  an  extent  that  the  other 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


players  simply  had  to  scramble  after  him  as  best  they 
could. 

He  died  last  winter  at  eighty-four  years  of  age,  and  all 
Paris,  governmental,  artistic,  and  scientific,  united  in  giv¬ 
ing  him  imposing  and  significant  obsequies.  The  respect 
which  the  young  men  of  France  have  for  their  old  masters 
is  something  exceedingly  sympathetic  to  an  American 
observer.  Whenever  Saint-Saens  appeared  among  them 
they  would  hover  around  with  eager  deference,  flushing 
with  pride  as  he  would  say  something  to  the  one  or 
the  other.  In  fact,  Widor,  who  is  perhaps  ten  years 
younger  than  Saint-Saens,  always  insisted  on  treating  him 
as  if  he,  Widor,  were  a  young,  deferential  schoolboy  in 
the  presence  of  his  great  master.  Indeed,  they  reserve 
the  words  “ grand  maitre”  only  for  their  very  choicest  men 
of  the  arts  and  the  learned  professions. 

With  Lillian  Nordica  I  made  a  joint  tour  through  New 
England,  giving  Wagner  concerts.  As  she  had  by  that 
time  arrived  at  true  prima  donna  estate  she  had  a  private 
car  in  which  she  lived  and  in  which  I  also  had  a  room. 
The  poor  lady  arrived  on  the  first  day  with  an  attack  of 
bronchitis  so  acute  that  she  could  hardly  speak.  Her 
voice  sounded  like  the  croak  of  a  raven.  I  have  never 
seen  any  woman  in  such  abject  despair,  walking  up  and 
down  the  little  dining-room  of  the  car  like  a  caged 
tigress,  every  now  and  then  touching  a  note  on  the  up¬ 
right  piano  which  had  been  placed  therein,  and  trying  her 
voice.  She  was  clad  in  a  wrapper,  and  tears  and  misery 
had  ravaged  her  comely  face  so  that  it  was  hardly  recog¬ 
nizable.  I,  of  course,  thought  that  she  would  not  sing 
that  evening,  but  at  seven  she  disappeared  into  her  room 
and  an  hour  later  emerged  clad  in  a  magnificent  toilet, 
with  her  diamond  tiara  on  the  top  of  her  head  and  her 


ARTISTS 


159 


face  wonderfully  made  up.  When  she  appeared  before 
her  audience  with  whom  she  was  an  old  favorite,  her 
manner  had  all  the  regal  but  smiling  charm  of  yore.  Her 
voice?  Well,  that  is  another  story. 

During  that  entire  week  this  tragi-comedy  would  re¬ 
peat  itself  every  day.  Her  bronchitis  never  left  her,  and 
from  my  room  I  could  hear  this  poor  woman,  as  she  en¬ 
tered  the  dining-room,  touch  the  piano  furtively  and  try 
to  sing  a  few  notes.  It  was  agony,  and  I  have  hated  pri¬ 
vate  cars  ever  since,  and  am  quite  content  to  occupy  a 
drawing-room  or  a  berth  in  a  regular  sleeping-car  when 
I  travel.  It  is  certainly  more  cheerful. 

When  we  finally  arrived  in  New  York,  where  we  ex¬ 
pected  to  give  two  Wagner  concerts,  Io  and  behold,  the 
clouds  suddenly  lifted.  Nordica  was  her  old  self,  and 
while  the  diamond  tiara  could  not  have  looked  more 
regal  nor  the  smile  have  been  more  ingratiating  than  at 
Worcester,  Massachusetts,  her  voice  had  again  regained  its 
old  charm  and  the  cry  of  the  Valkyrie  and  Isolde  s  Liebes- 
tod  brought  back  to  the  memory  of  her  audiences  the 
happy  days  when  Nordica,  Schumann-Heink,  and  Jean 
de  Reszke  had  electrified  them  at  the  Metropolitan. 

Madame  Nordica  was,  however,  not  the  only  American 
artist  with  whom  I  came  into  frequent  professional  con¬ 
tact  and  who  had  achieved  an  eminence  equal  to  that  of 
the  best  of  Europe.  David  Bispham  became  a  member 
of  my  opera  company  in  1896.  He  came  of  an  old  Quaker 
family  in  Philadelphia,  into  whose  lives  music  had  never 
penetrated.  How  Bispham  got  his  intense  musical  tem¬ 
perament  is  one  of  those  mysteries  that  the  laws  of  neither 
heredity  nor  environment  can  explain. 

He  was  a  man  of  some  means,  and  finding  the  local  at¬ 
mosphere  in  which  he  lived  uncongenial  to  his  evident 


i6o  MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


artistic  needs,  he  went  to  Europe.  He  had  a  vibrant 
barytone  voice,  studied  singing  with  Lamperti,  and 
gradually  began  to  make  successful  appearances  on  the 
stage,  especially  in  England.  In  my  company  he  achieved 
especial  successes  as  Telramund,  Kurvenal,  and  Beck - 
messer ,  also  as  Roger  Chillingworth  in  my  own  opera  on 
Hawthorne's  “  Scarlet  Letter."  He  adored  a  part  in 
which  he  could  “act."  In  fact,  he  sometimes  overacted. 
His  musical  memory,  especially  in  his  later  years,  was  not 
always  to  be  relied  on,  but  the  more  he  forgot  the  words 
the  more  intense  his  acting  became,  and  as  Chillingworth, 
in  which  role  he  really  never  quite  learned  the  text,  he 
fairly  contorted  his  body  in  giving  expression  to  the  sin¬ 
ister  machinations  and  revengeful  desires  of  that  demon. 

As  a  man  he  was  of  a  singularly  delightful,  almost 
childlike  disposition.  The  things  of  this  life  rarely  ex¬ 
isted  for  him  as  they  really  were.  He  saw  them  through 
the  glass  of  his  own  exuberant  imagination.  The  mysteri¬ 
ous,  the  extraordinary,  always  fascinated  him,  and  he 
therefore  often  became  the  prey  of  designing  people  who 
took  easy  advantage  of  his  trusting  nature.  He  was  a 
most  generous  colleague  and  more  free  from  jealousy  than 
most  operatic  singers.  Rehearsals,  no  matter  how  long, 
were  to  him  as  the  breath  to  his  nostrils,  and  he  would 
often  spend  hours  before  his  glass  in  the  dressing-room 
making  up  his  face  for  some  character  part  in  close  imi¬ 
tation  of  a  famous  picture  he  had  seen  at  the  UfFizi  in 
Florence  or  the  Royal  Gallery  in  London.  He  loved  to  en¬ 
act  a  villain,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  his  doglike  devotion 
to  Tristan  and  Kurvenal  often  brought  tears  to  our  eyes. 

My  wife  and  I  became  very  fond  of  him  and,  later  on, 
when  he  and  I  joined  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House 
Company,  again  under  Maurice  Grau,  we  would  often 


ARTISTS 


161 


take  our  meals  together  on  the  long  Western  trips  to  and 
from  California. 

He  was  exceedingly  irascible  if  servants  did  not  carry 
out  his  orders  properly,  and  he  would  berate  them  in  his 
very  resonant  voice  with  a  distinctness  of  utterance  worthy 
of  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  One  morning  we  were  seated 
at  breakfast  in  the  dining-car  of  our  train  when  the  col¬ 
ored  waiter  brought  him  his  coffee,  which  was  so  weak  that 
a  drop  of  the  so-called  cream  turned  it  a  bluish  gray. 
“Take  away  that  coffee !”  Bispham  thundered.  “It  is 
not  fit  to  drink.  It  is  too  weak!” 

“Oh,  no,  sah!”  expostulated  gently  the  waiter.  “Dat 
coffee  am  all  right.  It’s  de  cream  what’s  too  powerful 
strong !” 

At  that  time  leather  suitcases  were  just  making  their 
first  appearance  and  I  had  bought  one  and  carried  it 
about  with  me.  Bispham  noticed  it  and  said,  in  his  ex¬ 
treme  Kensington  English,  which  he  had  carefully  ac¬ 
quired  over  there:  “Walter,  that  is  a  very  nice  bag  you 
have  there.  I  think  I  will  buy  four  of  them,  each  one  a 
little  smaller  than  the  other,  so  that  I  can  put  them  all 
inside  each  other.” 

“Why,”  I  said,  “David,  aren’t  you  going  to  pack  any¬ 
thing  else  inside  of  those  bags?” 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!”  laughed  David.  “Walter,  you  are  al¬ 
ways  having  your  little  joke!” 

Whenever  my  opera  company  came  to  Boston  the  sup¬ 
ers,  when  an  extra  group  or  crowd  of  knights  or  peasants, 
etc.,  were  necessary,  were  always  taken  from  Harvard 
University.  This  became  a  source  of  enormous  revenue 
to  the  doorkeeper  at  the  stage  entrance.  Our  stage- 
manager  paid  him  twenty-five  cents  for  each  super,  but 
he  not  only  pocketed  this  money  himself  but  charged  the 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


162 


students  anywhere  from  fifty  cents  upward,  according 
to  the  popularity  of  the  opera,  for  the  privilege  of  hearing 
it  from  the  stage.  In  consequence  we  often  had  the  most 
wonderful  athletic  specimens  that  the  ardent  pursuit  of 
sport  produces  among  college  men,  delighting  our  eyes  as 
the  curtain  rose,  and  the  knights  and  nobles  in  the  sec¬ 
ond  act  of  “Tannhauser,”  for  instance,  clad  in  magnifi¬ 
cent  robes,  would  march  in  and  solemnly  listen  to  the 
contest  of  song  in  the  castle  of  the  Landgrave  of  Thur¬ 
ingia. 

But  they  were  not  all  athletes,  and  I  remember  one 
real  student  among  them.  The  curtain  went  up  on  the 
first  act  of  “Lohengrin”  and,  to  my  amazement  as  I 
looked  up  from  my  conductor’s  stand,  I  saw  one  of  these 
college  boys,  dressed  in  the  armor  and  cloak  of  one  of 
King  Henry’s  knights,  calmly  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
throne,  large  spectacles  on  his  nose,  busily  following  the 
action  of  the  opera  from  a  libretto  which  he  held  in  his 
hand  and  close  to  his  eyes. 

Another  time  a  much  more  terrible  occurrence  took 
place,  but  very  much  “behind  the  scenes.”  I  was  in 
Boston  with  the  Grau  Opera  Company  and,  at  a  Satur¬ 
day  matinee,  “Carmen”  was  given  with  Madame  Calve 
in  the  title  role.  I  did  not  conduct  that  opera,  and  hap¬ 
pened  to  saunter  on  the  stage  after  the  third  act.  I 
found  the  whole  company  in  a  state  of  only  half-sup- 

pressed  merriment.  While  Madame  A -  was  singing 

Micaelas  air  on  the  stage,  in  which  she  implores  Don 
Jose  to  leave  Carmen  and  return  to  his  old  mother,  one 
of  these  young  wretches  from  Harvard  had  crept  into 
her  dressing-room,  and  in  order  to  have  a  triumphant 
souvenir  to  hang  up  in  his  rooms  at  college  he  had  stolen 
her —  No,  not  her  stockings,  but  another  important 


ARTISTS 


163 


part  of  her  wearing  apparel.  Madame  A - ,  on  return¬ 

ing  to  her  dressing-room,  had  discovered  the  theft.  Her 
maid  had  told  the  wardrobe  mistress,  the  wardrobe  mis¬ 
tress  had  told  the  stage  carpenter,  he  had  repeated  it  to 
the  stage-manager,  and  so  forth  and  so  on,  the  whole 

company  revelling  in  it,  especially  as  Madame  A - was 

herself  of  New  England  parentage  and  was  considered 
an  exceptionally  proper  young  person. 


XII 


ROMANCE 

“At  last!”  my  readers  will  exclaim.  “AH  these  remi¬ 
niscences  about  musicians  are  well  enough,  but  it  is  their 
love-affairs  that  we  are  interested  in.  Think  of  Beethoven 
and  the  Countess  Giucciardi,  of  Berlioz  and  Miss  Smith- 
son,  of  Liszt  and  the  Countess  d’AgouIt,  of  Wagner 
and  Madame  Wesendonck.  Musicians  are  so  romantic, 
so  different  from  ordinary  men.  They  wear  their  hair 
longer;  they  affect  delightful  eccentricities  of  conduct  and 
of  clothes;  the  ordinary  humdrum  of  life  does  not  touch 
them,  and  they  live  only  in  the  higher  and  rarer  atmos¬ 
phere  of  art  and  poetry.”  Therefore  woman,  who  is  so 
much  more  spiritual  than  man,  sometimes  thinks  in  her 
unguarded  moments  that  true  happiness  can  only  be 
found  by  falling  in  love  with  an  artist  or,  better  still,  hav¬ 
ing  him  fall  in  love  with  her. 

Without  venturing  to  place  myself  in  the  same  cate¬ 
gory  as  the  great  musicians  mentioned  above,  I  neverthe¬ 
less  propose  in  this  chapter  to  give  a  full  and  detailed  ac¬ 
count  of  all  my  love-affairs — all,  or  at  least  of  as  many  as 
can  be  crowded  into  the  confines  of  a  chapter.  I  have 
lived  a  great  many  years  and  my  life,  like  that  of  other, 
artists,  has  been  full  to  the  brim  of  all  kinds  of  interesting 
and  fascinating  happenings,  and  in  order  that  my  read¬ 
ers  may  gain  a  true  picture  I  shall  begin  at  the  very  be¬ 
ginning,  promising  to  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and 
nothing  but  the  truth. 

Terrible  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  to  confess  at  the  outset 

164 


ROMANCE 


165 


that  I  began  my  life  as  a  gay  Lothario  at  the  tender  age 
of  eight.  My  family  were  then  living  in  Breslau,  Silesia, 
and  the  rear  of  the  house  in  which  our  apartment  was 
situated  opened  on  a  large  courtyard,  upon  which  sev¬ 
eral  other  houses  faced.  This  courtyard  naturally  be¬ 
came  the  playground  of  all  the  children  who  lived  around 
it.  We  were  particularly  intimate  with  one  family,  the 
children  of  which  consisted  of  an  elder  brother,  already 
in  the  university,  who  affected  the  appearance  and  man¬ 
ner  of  the  great  German  poet,  Friedrich  Schiller.  He  was 
supposed  to  have  great  poetical  talents,  and  it  was  darkly 
rumored  that  he  had  already  written  two  tragedies.  I 
was  greatly  in  awe  of  him,  but  his  younger  brother,  who 
was  a  boy  of  my  own  age,  was  my  classmate  in  school — 
the  gymnasium,  as  it  was  called.  And  then  there  was  a 
sister,  little  Lorchen,  seven  years  of  age,  with  blue  eyes 
and  many  blond  curls.  I  had  played  with  her  and  her 
brother  for  several  months  before  I  suddenly  discovered 
that  her  curls  were  beautiful,  like  spun  gold,  and  that 
there  was  something  particularly  ingratiating  in  the  blue 
of  her  eyes.  I  had  an  intense  desire  to  put  my  arms 
around  her,  but,  strange  to  say,  the  consciousness  of  this 
filled  me  with  such  anger  that  instead  of  giving  way  to  it 
I  took  the  first  opportunity  to  slap  this  darling  little  child 
most  unmercifully.  To  this  day  I  cannot  explain  my  un¬ 
natural  depravity,  and  I  wish  that  I  could  now — over 
fifty  years  later — meet  little  Lorchen  again  to  tell  her 
that  this  slap  was  my  only  way  of  letting  her  know  how 
much  I  loved  her.  Alas,  she  never  knew,  and  as  we  emi¬ 
grated  to  America  soon  thereafter,  I  never  had  the  time 
nor  the  opportunity  to  overcome  my  shyness  and  to  place 
my  love  at  her  feet  in  proper  fashion. 

I  cannot  remember  any  new  passions  from  then  on 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 66 


until  my  sixteenth  year.  Lorchen’s  picture  soon  and  com¬ 
pletely  faded  from  my  memory.  I  was  tremendously 
taken  up,  first  with  learning  English,  New  York  school 
life,  my  musical  studies,  playing  marbles,  flying  kites, 
and  building  ships  to  sail  on  the  pond  in  Central  Park. 
But  when  I  was  fifteen  a  little  Frenchman  came  to  New 
York  and  presented  himself  to  my  father  with  his  two 
little  daughters,  Louise  and  Jeanne,  who  were  both  pian¬ 
ist  prodigies.  Louise  was  fifteen  and  little  Jeanne  only 
twelve.  The  latter  was  truly  remarkable,  and  her  play¬ 
ing  made  quite  a  stir  in  New  York  at  the  time.  But  I  was 
singularly  drawn  toward  the  older  sister,  Louise.  Their 
mother  had  died  when  the  children  were  very  young  and 
Louise  had  quite  taken  the  mother’s  place  and  watched 
over  Jeanne  with  a  maternal  solicitude  and  tenderness 
truly  remarkable  in  so  young  a  girl.  She  played  ex¬ 
quisitely  herself,  and  I  can  still  hear  the  velvety  touch  of 
her  fingers  in  the  A  Flat  Etude  of  Chopin,  but  in  her 
adoration  for  her  younger  sister’s  more  brilliant  talent 
she  completely  effaced  herself,  and  it  was  only  with  diffi¬ 
culty  that  one  could  get  her  to  play  if  her  sister  was  pres¬ 
ent.  They  lived  in  a  little  French  boarding-house  and  I 
used  to  love  to  go  there  in  the  evening,  and  while  Jeanne 
would  play  for  us  in  most  brilliant  fashion  Louise  would 
sit  at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room  and,  under  the 
mellow  light  of  a  centre  lamp,  would  darn  stockings  or 
deftly  refashion  some  dress  which  Jeanne  was  to  wear  at 
her  next  concert.  Louise  had  the  gentlest  of  brown  eyes, 
and  her  face  and  bearing  breathed  a  tranquillity  and 
sweetness  rarely  found  in  the  agitating  nervous  life  of 
to-day.  She  was  not  talkative,  but  when  she  spoke  her 
eyes  would  smile  and  crinkle  up  in  very  ingratiating 
fashion. 


ROMANCE 


167 


I  had  certainly  outgrown  the  slapping  age,  but  had  not 
yet  developed  the  courage  to  declare  my  adoration.  I 
seem  to  have  been  quite  content  to  sit  next  to  Louise,  and 
to  look  into  her  gentle  eyes,  or  watch  her  deft  fingers  as 
they  pleated  and  sewed  and  did  all  those  clever  things 
which  women’s  fingers  alone  know  how  to  do.  That 
spring,  alas,  the  father  and  his  daughters  returned  to 
France  and  I  have  never  seen  them  again. 

But  so  inconstant  is  youth  that  the  following  year  I  fell 
madly  in  love  with  Madame  Teresa  Carreno,  of  whom  I 
have  already  written  in  an  earlier  chapter.  I  was  sixteen 
and  she  was  twenty-four,  radiantly  beautiful,  brilliantly 
educated,  and  a  remarkable  linguist,  speaking  English, 
German,  French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  with  equal  fluency. 
But  for  me  her  eyes  spoke  a  language  even  more  elo¬ 
quent  than  her  tongue,  and  it  was  small  wonder  that  I  was 
bowled  over  completely.  On  my  first  concert  tour,  her 
beauty,  her  exquisite  playing,  and  the  languorous  half- 
tropical  charms  of  the  South  through  which  we  were 
touring  was  a  combination  I  could  not  withstand. 

But  my  schoolboy  adoration  received  a  severe  shock 
when,  on  the  last  day  of  our  tour,  a  handsome  and  very 
robust  Italian  barytone,  by  the  name  of  Tagliapietra, 
came  to  meet  her  and  I  found  that  she  was  madly  in  love 
with  him.  They  were  married  a  short  time  after. 

She,  too,  seems  to  have  been  unconscious  of  my  adora¬ 
tion.  Thirty-two  years  later,  at  a  dinner  given  at  the 
Hotel  Plaza  in  honor  of  my  twenty-fifth  anniversary  as  a 
conductor,  she  was  present  and  in  my  speech  of  thanks 
I  humorously  referred  to  her  as  the  grande  passion  of 
my  early  youth.  She  afterward  told  my  sister:  “I  never 
knew  that  Walter  had  felt  like  that  about  me!” 

To  proceed  with  my  confessions.  The  following  year 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 68 


I  met — but,  alas,  this  chapter  is  already  overcrowded 
and  I  shall  have  to  continue  the  (to  me)  so  fascinating 
recital  of  my  various  romances  in  my  next  book  of  me¬ 
moirs,  which  I  expect  to  publish  in  about  twenty  years. 


XIII 


THE  ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK 

My  father  had  always  considered  that  a  study  of  the 
oratorios  of  Bach  and  Handel  was  a  highly  important 
foundation  for  the  young  musician,  and  I  had  spent 
many  hours  with  him  in  studying  their  scores  and  imitat¬ 
ing  their  form  in  my  own  counterpointal  work.  Bach’s 
“St.  Matthew’s  Passion”  and  Handel’s  “Messiah,” 
“Samson,”  and  “Judas  Maccabseus”  I  knew  virtually 
by  heart.  My  father  also  believed  the  development  of 
amateur  choruses  to  be  a  very  strong  factor  in  the  musical 
growth  of  a  people.  Under  his  inspiration  the  chorus  of 
the  Oratorio  Society  constantly  grew  in  numbers  and 
technical  proficiency;  but  it  suffered  from  the  great  dearth 
of  men  singers,  especially  tenors.  The  terribly  one-sided 
condition  of  musical  development  in  our  country,  pro¬ 
ceeding  almost  exclusively  on  feminine  lines,  showed  itself 
markedly  in  this  branch  of  the  art.  Many  of  the  men 
singers  who  in  one  way  or  another  had  been  cajoled  or 
coerced  into  joining  a  choral  society,  had  often  to  be 
drilled  in  their  parts  like  children,  though  without  a 
child’s  quickness  of  perception.  The  result  was  that  the 
labor  of  training  was  incessant  and  the  mistakes  of  one 
year  repeated  themselves  inevitably  the  next.  In  re¬ 
hearsing  such  oratorios  as  Handel’s  “Messiah”  or  Bach’s 
“St.  Matthew’s  Passion,”  for  instance,  a  good  routined 
conductor  could  always  prophesy  beforehand  what  mis¬ 
takes  the  chorus  was  going  to  make. 

During  my  father’s  time  the  sopranos  in  the  Oratorio 

169 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


170 

Society  were  of  overwhelming  power  and  quality;  but 
this  was  largely  because  my  mother,  when  we  came  to 
America,  gave  up  all  solo  singing  in  public  and  devoted 
herself  enthusiastically  to  leading  the  soprano  choir.  Her 
voice  was  phenomenal  in  its  strength  and  quality,  and 
when,  as  in  some  fugal  chorus  of  Handel's,  the  sopranos 
finally  enter  on  the  main  theme,  her  triumphant  voice 
would  carry  everything  along  with  it.  She  always  sang 
by  heart,  her  beautiful,  deep-set  eyes  fixed  on  the  con¬ 
ductor,  and  when  this  conductor  happened  to  be  her 
own  husband  or  son  there  was  a  devotion  and  a  love  in 
them  that  I  can  never  forget. 

To  maintain  a  choral  society  in  a  huge  city  like  New 
York  is  doubly  difficult  because  of  the  many  temptations 
and  distractions  that  beset  its  members  in  so  large  a 
metropolis  and  threaten  the  regular  attendance  at  re¬ 
hearsals.  I  have  always  felt,  therefore,  that  the  many 
splendid  performances  which  the  society  has  given,  in  its 
long  existence  of  forty-nine  years,  are  especially  to  its 
credit.  JThe  rehearsals  with  these  amateur  singers,  how¬ 
ever,  demand  from  the  conductor  ten  times  the  energy, 
patience,  and  vitality  that  are  necessary  with  an  orches¬ 
tra  composed  of  trained  professionals.  And  yet  there 
is  a  charm  in  working  with  devoted  amateurs.  My  father 
loved  it,  and  even  during  the  harassing  labors  of  founding 
and  maintaining  the  German  opera  at  the  Metropolitan, 
he  always  turned  to  the  regular  Thursday-evening  chorus 
rehearsals  of  the  Oratorio  Society  as  a  change  and  rest. 
I  confess  that  I  have  similarly  enjoyed  the  almost  primi¬ 
tive  study  necessary  with  an  amateur  chorus  after  a  day 
spent  with  my  orchestra,  and  I  look  back  with  the  deep¬ 
est  pleasure  on  the  many  years  during  which  I  conducted 
the  Oratorio  Society. 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  171 


Smaller  cities  should  be  able  to  develop  choral  societies 
far  more  easily  than  New  York.  Toronto,  Canada,  has 
always  been  an  example  of  what  can  be  accomplished  in 
that  direction.  There  are  four  choral  societies  of  high 
merit  there,  among  which  perhaps  the  Mendelssohn 
Choir,  founded  by  Doctor  Vogt,  ranks  highest.  The  Eng¬ 
lish  have  an  inherited  love  and  talent  for  choral  singing, 
and  in  Toronto  the  weekly  rehearsal  is  the  one  “  dissipa¬ 
tion’  ’  of  the  week,  and  is  eagerly  looked  forward  to  by  the 
singers.  I  have  heard  the  Mendelssohn  Choir  repeatedly 
on  their  visits  to  New  York  and  have  been  thrilled  by  the 
beauty  and  volume  of  their  tone  and  the  precision  of 
their  singing. 

I  have  written  elsewhere  of  the  great  musical  festival 
which  was  projected  and  conducted  by  my  father  in 
May,  1881.  For  the  great  chorus  of  twelve  hundred, 
which  was  its  outstanding  feature,  the  four  hundred 
singers  of  the  Oratorio  Society  formed  the  backbone, 
and  I  was  intrusted  with  the  drilling  of  two  other  sec¬ 
tions  of  the  festival  chorus.  As  I  had  been  the  accom¬ 
panist  and  organist  for  years  at  all  the  rehearsals  of  the 
Oratorio  Society  and  had  officiated  as  conductor  of  the 
Newark  Harmonic  Society  for  three  years  after  the  fes¬ 
tival,  I  was  technically  well  equipped  to  take  over  the 
directorship  of  the  Oratorio  Society  when  it  was  offered 
to  me  after  my  father’s  death  in  1885. 

I  conducted  the  last  concert  of  that  season,  Bach’s 
“St.  Matthew’s  Passion,”  and  found  that  the  affection 
and  reverence  which  the  chorus  cherished  for  my  father 
made  them  help  me  devotedly  in  my  difficult  beginning. 

For  the  following  season  I  cast  about  to  find  a  new 
work  to  mark  my  entry  into  this  field,  and  decided  that  a 
concert  performance  of  Wagner’s  “Parsifal”  would  in- 


17  2 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


terest  the  New  York  public.  The  sacred  character  of 
the  work,  the  importance  and  beauty  of  its  choral  portions, 
and  the  fact  that  as  yet  its  music  was  almost  unknown 
seemed  to  me  to  invite  such  a  performance,  even  though 
Wagner  had  conceived  it  for  dramatic  representation  and 
with  a  stage-setting.  He  had  intended  the  work  for  per¬ 
formance  only  in  Bayreuth,  but  in  1882,  when  it  was  first 
produced  there,  he  himself  had  given  me  an  orchestral 
score  in  manuscript  of  the  choral  Finale  from  the  first 
act  to  present  to  my  father,  so  that  he  might  produce 
it  in  concert  form  in  New  York. 

During  a  visit  to  London  in  the  spring  of  1886  I  called 
on  the  London  representative  of  the  publishers  of  “Par¬ 
sifal”  and  asked  whether  an  orchestral  score  of  the  com¬ 
plete  work  could  be  purchased.  He  told  me  it  could,  but 
that  its  purchase  would  not  entitle  me  to  a  performance 
of  the  work,  and  that  if  I  used  it  for  a  performance  I 
would  have  to  pay  a  fine  of  fifty  pounds.  I  told  him  I 
was  quite  ready  to  pay  such  a  fine  as  I  wanted  it  for  a 
concert  performance  in  New  York,  and  promptly  bought 
an  orchestral  score  and  had  the  orchestral  parts  copied 
from  it. 

Owing  to  my  connection  with  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House  I  was  able  to  give  the  work  an  exceptional  cast. 
Kundry  was  sung  by  Marianne  Brandt,  who  had  sung  it 
in  Bayreuth  at  one  of  the  first  performances.  Max  AI- 
vary  was  cast  for  the  title  role,  and  Emil  Fischer  for 
Gurnemanz .  Alvary  became  ill  shortly  before  the  per¬ 
formance  and  his  part  was  taken  by  another  young 
tenor  of  our  company,  a  Mr.  Kraemer.  The  choral  por¬ 
tions  were  sung  by  the  Oratorio  Society  with  thrilling 
effect. 

This  was  the  first  performance  of  “Parsifal”  outside  of 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  173 


Bayreuth,  and  it  made  a  sensation  but  also  aroused  quite 
a  controversy  in  the  newspapers  as  to  its  fitness  for  the 
concert  room.  Good  and  weighty  arguments  can  be 
produced  on  both  sides.  At  a  performance  in  concert 
a  great  deal  is  lost  to  many  people,  especially  to  those 
whose  imagination  cannot  function  without  the  stimulus 
of  scenery,  costumes,  and  dramatic  action;  but  at  that 
time  this  was  the  only  opportunity  for  American  music- 
lovers,  who  could  not  make  the  long  trip  to  Bayreuth,  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  music.  To  many  listeners 
the  choral  portions,  especially  those  centring  in  the  re¬ 
ligious  ceremonies  in  the  Hall  of  the  Holy  Grail,  were 
just  as  impressive,  if  not  more  so,  than  in  a  scenic  rep¬ 
resentation.  To-day,  and  generally  speaking,  I  would 
rather  hear  the  music  from  “Parsifal”  with  my  eyes 
closed.  My  imagination,  stimulated  by  the  music,  can 
paint  the  scenic  and  dramatic  investiture  far  more  ideal¬ 
istically  than  any  actual  stage  representation,  but  I  do 
not  claim  this  as  a  truth  for  all,  but  only  as  my  indi¬ 
vidual  preference. 

We  gave  two  concert  performances  at  the  Metropolitan 
Opera  House  (public  rehearsal  and  concert),  and  over 
three  thousand  people  listened  with  rapt  attention  at 
each  rendition. 

Years  after,  in  1903,  when  the  then  director  of  opera 
at  the  Metropolitan,  Heinrich  Conried,  announced  his 
intention  of  giving  a  stage  performance  of  “Parsifal,”  I 
received  a  letter  from  Madame  Cosima  Wagner,  saying 
that  she  had  heard  that  I  possessed  the  score  and  orches¬ 
tral  parts  of  the  work.  She  begged  me  not  to  give  them 
to  Mr.  Conried,  as  the  meister  had  left  absolute  directions 
in  his  will  that  stage  representations  of  this  work  were  to 
be  reserved  for  all  time  for  Bayreuth.  She  had  heard 


174 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


that  I  had  given  a  concert  performance  and  wondered 
how  I  had  gotten  permission. 

I  wrote  to  her  and  explained  how  I  had  obtained  the 
score  and  had  sent  the  “ fifty  pounds  fine”  to  the  pub¬ 
lishers,  according  to  my  agreement  with  them.  I  then 
received  another  letter  from  her,  as  follows: 

Dear  Mr.  Damrosch: 

Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind  lines  and  the  expression  of 
your  feelings  for  Parsifal,  which,  of  course,  is  never  to  be  given  out 
of  Bayreuth;  but  concerning  the  production  at  concert,  there  has 
been  made  a  very  limited  choice  of  fragments,  which  is  not  to  be 
extended.  The  choice,  done  by  the  master,  is  as  follows: 

1.  Prelude,  close  of  the  first  act, — nothing  of  the  second. 

2.  Verwandlungsmusik — close  of  the  third  act. 

3.  Amfortasklage 

4.  Charfreitagszauber 

I  am  astonished  that  for  £50  you  got  the  allowance  (permission) 
to  execute  the  whole  Parsifal  in  concert  and  I  will  ask  the  publisher 
(about  it). 

Concerning  the  performance  on  the  stage,  I  still  hope  that  the  cul¬ 
tivated  part  of  the  public  at  New  York  won’t  agree  to  it. 

Receive,  dear  Mr.  Damrosch,  with  my  best  thanks,  my  kindest 

C.  Wagner 

Bayreuth,  6  Juli,  1903. 


Conried,  however,  obtained  his  parts  elsewhere,  and 
gave  a  stage  performance  that  winter.  Since  then  the 
copyright  on  “ Parsifal”  has  run  out  and  it  has  been  pro¬ 
duced  all  over  the  world. 

During  my  search  for  modern  works  I  endeavored  also 
to  keep  alive  the  interest  in  the  old  oratorios.  I  owed 
much  to  them,  and  their  dignity  and  genuine  expression 
of  religious  feeling  had  been  a  most  important  factor  in 
my  early  and  earliest  education.  As  a  boy  I  sang  alto  in 
the  Oratorio  Society  chorus  and  at  sixteen  was  promoted 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  175 


to  the  dignity  of  accompanist  at  rehearsals.  At  this  work 
I  became  quite  an  expert,  and  if  my  father  stopped  at 
a  certain  place  to  correct  the  chorus,  I  would,  of  course, 
know  beforehand  what  he  wanted,  and  would  hammer  out 
the  right  note  for  the  altos  or  the  tenors — it  was  usually 
the  tenors — or  would  resort,  even  while  they  were  sing¬ 
ing,  to  all  manner  of  expedients,  such  as  playing  the  crit¬ 
ical  intervals  an  octave  higher  in  order  to  keep  up  the 
pitch  or  to  define  them  more  clearly.  As  both  my  mother 
and  Tante  Marie  sang  in  the  chorus,  there  would  be  the 
four  of  us  going  home  together  after  a  rehearsal,  discuss¬ 
ing  this  or  that  point  which  needed  more  drilling,  or  a 
weakness  that  needed  bolstering  up,  or  we  would  express 
mutual  enthusiasm  over  some  chorus  particularly  well 
sung  that  evening.  Naturally  the  refrain  after  almost 
every  rehearsal  was:  “How  can  we  get  ten  more  first 
tenors?”  America  did  not  seem  to  grow  them,  and  as 
even  basses  were  not  as  plentiful  as  they  should  have 
been,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  future  American  composer 
should  write  choruses  for  women  only.  If  at  the  voice 
trial  of  new  applicants,  which  usually  took  place  before 
or  after  rehearsal,  that  rara  avis,  a  tenor,  was  found,  we 
glowed  with  delight  and  speculated  as  to  whether  he 
would  really  turn  up  at  the  next  rehearsal  and  become  a 
regular  member.  It  cannot  be  claimed  that  tenors  are 
to  be  found  in  profusion  even  to-day,  but  there  has  been 
an  immense  development  in  the  quality  of  choral  singers. 
Their  voices  are  better  trained,  they  read  better  at 
sight,  and  the  general  increase  of  interest  in  music  mani¬ 
fests  itself  very  strongly  in  this  direction. 

In  1892  I  gave  a  Handel  festival  in  honor  of  the  one- 
hundred-and-fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  first  performance 
of  Handel’s  “Messiah”  in  Dublin  under  his  own  direction, 


176 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


in  1742,  followed  by  the  one  which  King  George  II  and 
his  court  attended,  and  when  the  crowd  was  so  great  that 
the  management  requested  the  gentlemen  not  to  wear  their 
swords  nor  the  ladies  their  hoop-skirts,  in  order  to  enable 
as  many  as  possible  to  hear  the  work  of  “Mr.  Handel. ” 
At  this  performance,  when  the  Hallelujah  chorus  began, 
with  its  mighty  climax,  “King  of  Kings,  Hallelujah! 
Hallelujah !”  King  George,  overcome  with  emotion,  arose 
and  remained  standing  until  the  end.  Naturally  the 
entire  audience  rose  in  imitation  of  their  royal  master, 
and  Great  Britain  has  continued  this  custom  ever  since. 
As  this  was  a  fitting  homage  both  to  the  Almighty  and 
to  the  composer  who  in  this  chorus  so  marvellously 
voiced  man’s  adoration  for  him,  my  father  introduced 
the  custom  at  his  own  first  performance  of  the  “Mes¬ 
siah,”  in  1874,  and  the  Oratorio  Society  audiences  have 
followed  it  to  this  day. 

An  interesting  account  of  the  kind  of  orchestra  Handel 
may  have  employed  is  given  in  a  description  of  a  memorial 
service  of  the  “Messiah,”  sung  in  Westminster  Abbey 
shortly  after  his  death.  I  decided  to  reproduce  such  an 
orchestra  as  far  as  possible  at  our  festival  performance. 
The  main  characteristics  consisted  in  the  doubling  up  of 
the  string  parts  in  the  choruses  with  oboes  and  bassoons 
and  in  duplicating  the  trumpets  and  kettle-drums  in  the 
choral  climaxes.  The  effect  of  this  was  most  remarkable. 
I  had  placed  an  additional  oboe  with  every  three  violins 
and  an  additional  bassoon  for  every  three  violoncellos, 
with  a  few  contrabassoons  and  contrabass  clarinets  to 
strengthen  the  double  basses  and  to  take  the  part  of  the 
serpent — an  instrument  which  has  become  obsolete. 
The  doubling  up  of  trumpets  and  kettle-drums  in  the 
climaxes  did  not  make  them  sound  louder,  but  more  full. 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  177 


For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  the  sound  of  the  or¬ 
chestra  was  not  completely  buried  in  the  avalanche  of 
tone  from  a  large  chorus  of  three  hundred  and  fifty 
voices.  The  orchestral  accompaniments  supported  and 
supplemented  the  chorus  in  a  way  that  perhaps  only  a 
very  large  and  mellow  church  organ  might. 

In  Handefs  time  he  himself  usually  sat  at  the  organ 
and  filled  in  with  masterly  improvisations  many  of  the 
harmonies  for  which  in  his  score  he  had  written  only  the 
bass,  with  figures  indicating  the  harmonies  which  the 
organist  should  improvise.  Since  then  various  musicians 
have  endeavored  to  supply  these  harmonies  in  permanent 
fashion  by  writing  them  for  other  instruments  in  the  or¬ 
chestra,  principally  for  clarinets  and  bassoons.  As  most 
concert-halls  are  but  poorly  supplied  with  organs,  these 
arrangements  offered  a  kind  of  substitute,  and  the  one 
most  in  use  was  that  of  Robert  Franz.  He  was  a  German 
composer  of  very  lovely  songs,  and  a  great  admirer  of 
Handel,  but,  curiously  enough,  his  arrangements  were 
very  bad  and  not  in  keeping  with  the  Handelian  spirit. 
Mozart  also  had  written  accompaniments  to  supply  the 
missing  harmonies  for  a  performance  of  the  “Messiah” 
in  Vienna  at  a  hall  in  which  there  was  no  church  organ. 
His  additions,  especially  in  the  air  “The  people  that 
walked  in  darkness,”  are  of  such  transcendent  beauty 
that  when  I  proceeded  in  my  work  of  restoring  the  Han¬ 
delian  orchestra  to  its  original  form  my  courage  failed 
me  completely  as  I  came  to  this  air.  It  was  as  if  one 
master  had  found  a  painting  by  another  and  had  en¬ 
circled  it  in  a  frame  of  such  beauty  as  to  enhance  the 
value  of  the  original  picture.  I  could  not  bear  to  dis¬ 
turb  it,  but  the  clarinets  and  bassoons  of  Robert  Franz 
were  thrown  out  by  me  with  great  gusto. 


1 78 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Another  novel  and  interesting  feature  of  our  festival 
was  a  scenic  stage  performance  of  a  charming  pastoral  of 
FlandeFs  “Acis  and  Galatea.”  This  proved  to  have 
dramatic  qualities  which  in  their  appeal  seemed  way 
beyond  that  of  the  many  Italian  operas  which  Handel 
has  written.  The  cast  was  excellent.  The  part  of  Galatea 
was  sung  by  Madame  de  Vere,  a  charming  coloratura 
singer;  the  shepherd  Acis  by  William  Rieger,  one  of  our 
best  young  concert  tenors;  and  Polyphemus,  the  giant, 
by  that  master  artist,  Emil  Fischer.  The  scene  repre¬ 
sented  a  landscape  of  classic  beauty,  and  all  the  par¬ 
ticipants  were  clad  in  very  charming  Greek  shepherd 
costumes.  The  scene  in  which  Polyphemus,  coming  upon 
the  shepherd  lovers,  lifts  a  huge  rock  and  in  jealous  rage 
kills  Acis,  was  done  with  such  dramatic  intensity  as  to 
thrill  our  audiences.  The  performance  was  a  real  event, 
as  this  work  had  perhaps  not  been  given  in  its  dramatic 
form  since  the  time  of  Handel;  but,  curiously  enough,  it 
roused  but  little  interest,  for,  whereas  all  the  other  per¬ 
formances  of  the  festival  were  crowded  to  the  doors,  we 
had  but  half  an  audience  at  our  two  performances  of  the 
pastoral.  It  came  about  twenty  years  too  early,  and  I 
think  that  to-day,  especially  if  given  under  the  auspices 
of  the  Metropolitan  Opera,  it  would  arouse  wide-spread 
interest. 

This  spring  (1922)  I  was  in  Munich  and  the  town  was 
in  great  excitement  over  the  approaching  performance  of 
HandeFs  “Acis  and  Galatea”  in  dramatic  form.  Their 
conductor,  Bruno  Walter,  said  to  me:  “We  are  very 
proud  of  this  stage  performance,  as  it  is  the  first  since 
HandeFs  time.”  He  was  amazed  and,  as  he  told  me,  much 
chagrined  when  I  informed  him  that  I  had  given  it  in 
New  York  nearly  thirty  years  ago.  He  gave  it  a  beauti- 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  179 


ful  performance.  I  had  costumed  my  singers  in  classic 
Greek,  but  the  Munich  stage  director  had  given  the  work 
an  additional  and  rather  piquant  flavor  by  dressing  the 
singers  and  dancers  as  in  Handel’s  time,  when  all  perform¬ 
ers,  in  no  matter  what  age  their  plays  were  supposed  to 
take  place,  wore  the  costumes  and  huge  periwigs  of  their 
own  period. 

In  the  summer  of  1898  we  were  much  excited  by  the 
dramatic  accounts  of  Admiral  Dewey’s  victory  in  Manila 
Bay,  and  it  seemed  to  me  fitting  to  celebrate  it  by  com¬ 
posing  a  “Te  Deum”  for  soloists,  chorus,  and  orchestra. 
In  order  to  give  my  “ Manila  Te  Deum”  an  appropriate 
character,  I  used  several  of  the  bugle-calls  of  the  American 
army  and  navy  as  a  cantus  firmus,  around  which  I  wove 
the  fugal  developments  of  the  voices  of  the  chorus.  In 
the  last  chorus,  “Q  Lord,  in  thee  have  I  trusted;  let 
me  never  be  confounded,”  I  used  the  “  Star-Spangled 
Banner”  in  similar  fashion. 

The  work  received  its  first  performance  at  a  concert 
of  the  Oratorio  Society,  December  3,  1898,  and  marked 
the  introduction  of  my  brother  as  regular  conductor  of 
the  society.  The  following  spring  I  was  invited  to  con¬ 
duct  it  at  a  Dewey  celebration  in  Chicago,  and  on  Febru¬ 
ary  6,  1900,  I  directed  it  again  at  a  special  performance 
given  in  Carnegie  Hall,  the  proceeds  of  which  were  to  be 
used  toward  the  building  of  an  arch  in  honor  of  Admiral 
Dewey.  This  arch,  however,  was  never  built,  and  the 
several  thousand  dollars  which  resulted  from  our  concert 
were  finally  donated  by  the  Dewey  Arch  Committee  to  a 
philanthropic  purpose.  Our  two  guests  of  honor  at  this 
performance  were  Admiral  Dewey,  in  a  box  on  one  side 
of  the  hall,  and  Theodore  Roosevelt,  at  that  time  Governor 
of  New  York,  in  a  box  on  the  other  side.  Roosevelt  was 


i8o 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


to  make  an  appropriate  address,  and  as  the  victor  of 
Manila  Bay  was  present  and  the  entire  occasion  was  one 
of  jubilant  admiration  for  our  navy,  we  expected  one 
of  Roosevelt’s  most  flaming  patriotic  addresses  on  the 
glories  of  the  American  navy.  But,  alas,  that  evening 
his  mind  was  completely  occupied  with  things  nearer 
home,  and  after  a  few  very  courteous  remarks  about  my 
music,  he  launched  forth  into  a  terrific  speech  on  the 
Street  Cleaning  Department  of  New  York  and  the 
“duty  of  every  citizen  to  vote  at  the  primaries” ! 

In  1892  I  gave  the  first  performance  in  America  of 
Saint-Saens’s  opera  of  “Samson  and  Delilah.”  This 
work  is  admirably  adapted  for  concert  performance,  and 
many  portions  of  it  are  far  more  effective  in  this  form  than 
on  the  stage.  The  music  is  lovely  and  of  great  melodic 
simplicity,  and  many  of  the  choruses  are  written  in  ora¬ 
torio  form.  At  stage  performances  the  dramatic  climax 
of  the  second  act,  in  which  Delilah  appears  jubilantly  at 
the  door  of  her  palace,  shaking  Samson  s  red  wig  trium¬ 
phantly  at  the  admiring  high  priest  and  soldiers,  is  really 
an  anticlimax,  and  excites  our  risibilities  much  more 
than  our  sorrow  that  the  God-given  strength  of  the 
mighty  soldier  has  left  him. 

From  my  father  I  have  inherited  a  deep  admiration  for 
Hector  Berlioz  and  have  conducted  many  performances 
of  his  greater  works — the  “Damnation  of  Faust,”  the 
“Requiem  Mass,”  “Romeo  and  Juliet,”  and  the  first 
rendition  in  America  of  his  “Te  Deum.” 

Another  novelty  which  I  produced  with  the  Oratorio 
Society  in  1889  was  the  “Missa  Solemnis”  of  Edward 
Grell.  This  work  created  a  sensation.  Its  composer 
was  virtually  unknown  except  locally  in  Berlin,  where  he 
had  been  a  teacher  of  counterpoint  and  composition  in  the 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  181 


first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  He  had  lived  him¬ 
self  so  completely  into  the  style  of  the  Italian  masters  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  that  modern 
harmonies  simply  did  not  exist  for  him,  and  his  “Missa 
Solemnis”  is  conceived  absolutely  in  the  manner  of  the 
early  masters  of  ecclesiastical  music.  It  is  written  for 
four  choruses  of  four  parts  each  and  four  solo  quartets. 
There  is  absolutely  no  accompaniment,  and  the  purity  of 
these  sixteen-part  harmonies  without  any  admixture  of 
instruments  produces  truly  celestial  effects.  The  four 
choruses  which  are  generally  used  antiphonally  with  the 
solo  quartets,  produce  thrilling  climaxes,  and  the  Bene - 
dictus  especially  gives  an  impression  of  ecstatic  beauty. 

I  have  written  elsewhere  of  my  first  performance  of 
the  “Christus,”  by  Liszt.  I  also  produced  “St.  Christo¬ 
pher,  ”  by  Horatio  Parker,  distinguished  American  mu¬ 
sician  and  composer.  This  work,  however,  did  not  prove 
as  effective  as  his  “Hora  Novissima.”  It  seemed  to  fall 
between  two  stools,  as  it  was  neither  an  opera  nor  an 
oratorio. 

I  gave,  of  course,  many  renditions  of  the  oratorios  of 
Handel,  Haydn,  and  Mendelssohn,  and  inaugurated  the 
custom  of  an  annual  performance  of  Bach’s  “St.  Mat¬ 
thew’s  Passion”  during  Holy  Week.  I  am  happy  to 
say  that  I  succeeded  in  “popularizing”  this  mighty  work, 
so  that  now  it  draws  a  huge  and  devout  audience  when¬ 
ever  it  is  given.  But,  generally  speaking,  the  interest  in 
the  older  oratorios  is  waning,  not  only  in  New  York  but 
all  over  the  country.  The  ears  of  our  audiences  have  lost 
pleasure  in  the  simpler  harmonies  of  Handel  and  Haydn, 
and,  accustomed  to  the  richer  orchestration  of  to-day, 
find  the  accompaniments  of  the  Handelian  orchestra  thin 
and  archaic.  Something  of  the  simple  and  naive  reli- 


I 


182  MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


gious  faith  that  inspired  the  old  oratorios  has  also  gone, 
and  the  composer  has  not  yet  been  found  who  can  voice 
the  faith  and  aspirations  of  to-day.  It  is  a  pity  that  the 
old  oratorio  form  should  therefore  be  neglected.  I  think, 
however,  that  it  is  not  dead  but  only  sleeps,  and  will 
awaken  again. 

In  1898  I  retired  as  conductor  of  the  Oratorio  Society, 
owing  to  the  pressure  of  my  operatic  and  orchestral  work, 
and  my  brother  Frank  was  elected  as  my  successor.  He 
is  two  years  older  than  I  and  has  always  shared  my  love 
and  enthusiasm  for  music  in  an  equal  degree.  He  studied 
the  piano  as  a  boy,  but  had  always  insisted  that  his  talent 
was  not  great  enough  to  warrant  making  music  his  pro¬ 
fession;  and  therefore,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  with 
great  courage  determined  to  go  out  West  and  begin  a 
business  career.  Arrived  in  Denver,  Colorado,  with  one 
hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  proceeded,  in  the  manner 
of  our  American  young  men  who  have  no  intention  of  be¬ 
coming  a  burden  on  their  parents,  to  earn  his  own  living. 

He  began  at  the  very  bottom  and  slowly  worked  his 
way  upward,  but  suffered  intensely  during  his  first  years 
in  Denver  from  the  almost  total  lack  of  music  there.  He 
had  drunk  of  it  in  such  generous  quantities  in  New  York 
that  it  had  become  a  larger  part  of  his  very  life  than  he 
had  realized;  and  in  order  to  satisfy  his  need  he  founded 
a  choral  society  with  which  he  gave  some  of  the  old 
oratorios,  and  with  characteristic  audacity  he  supple¬ 
mented  this  with  an  orchestra  composed  of  a  handful  of 
professionals  then  playing  at  the  Denver  theatres  and  a 
few  amateurs.  The  citizens  of  Denver,  realizing  that  he 
was  a  real  musician  in  spite  of  his  modest  estimate  of 
himself,  urged  him  to  give  up  business  and  turn  alto¬ 
gether  to  music. 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  183 


At  the  time  of  my  father’s  death  Frank  had  become 
virtually  the  moving  force  in  all  the  higher  musical  en¬ 
terprises  of  Denver.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  time  had 
come  to  urge  him  to  return  to  New  York  and  together 
with  me  continue  the  work  my  father  had  begun.  He 
was  promptly  engaged  as  chorus  master  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  Opera  House,  and  also  became  more  and  more 
active  in  pedagogic  work,  for  which  he  had  a  special  en¬ 
thusiasm  which  has  never  waned. 

His  activities  extended  in  many  directions.  He  founded 
the  Young  People’s  Concerts  at  Carnegie  Hall,  and  be¬ 
came  supervisor  of  music  in  the  public  schools  of  New 
York,  completely  reforming  the  teaching  of  music.  The 
good  effects  of  this  are  felt  to  this  day.  He  also  founded 
the  People’s  Choral  Union,  in  which  working  men  and 
women  were  taught  singing  and  the  rudiments  of  music 
and  then  promoted  into  a  chorus  of  twelve  hundred  voices 
which  studied  and  performed  the  old  oratorios  of  Handel 
and  Haydn. 

He  officiated  as  conductor  of  the  Oratorio  Society  from 
1898  until  1912,  and  during  this  period  conducted  first 
performances  in  New  York  of  Edward  Elgar’s  “The 
Dream  of  Gerontius”  and  “The  Apostles,”  Anton 
Dvorak’s  “Stabat  Mater,”  Gabriel  Pierne’s  “Children’s 
Crusade,”  Johannes  Brahms’s  “Song  of  Fate,”  and 
Wolf-Ferrari’s  “La  Vita  Nuova.” 

His  interest  in  the  pedagogy  of  music  culminated  in  the 
founding  of  a  music-school — the  Institute  of  Musical  Art 
— which  was  liberally  endowed  by  James  Loeb  and 
others,  and  which  has  developed  into  one  of  the  few 
great  music-schools  of  this  country  and  Europe.  This 
school  soon  began  to  assume  such  proportions  as  to  de¬ 
mand  all  of  his  time  and  vitality.  He  therefore  retired 


184 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


from  other  public  work,  with  the  exception  of  the  con- 
ductorship  of  the  Society  of  Musical  Art,  a  unique  chorus 
of  sixty-five  professional  singers,  giving  only  two  con¬ 
certs  during  the  season,  representing  the  highest  that 
can  be  attained  in  choral  singing.  For  its  programmes  he 
drew  upon  the  rich  and  partly  unknown  treasures  of  the 
a  capella  choruses  of  such  masters  as  Palestrina,  Orlando 
di  Lasso,  Cornelius,  and  Brahms;  and  as  this  chorus  was 
composed  of  the  very  elect  of  New  York’s  church  and 
concert  singers  he  obtained  results  ravishing  in  their 
beauty. 

When  we  were  boys  together  we  quarrelled  dreadfully 
and  outrageously.  Frank  would  try  to  assert  his  two 
years’  seniority  over  me  and  I  would  resent  this  with 
both  hands  and  feet.  I  remember  my  mother  resolutely 
separating  us  and  giving  me  a  little  room  to  myself,  as 
that  seemed  the  only  way  to  achieve  peace  between  us. 
But  I  am  happy  to  say  that  since  1885,  when  Frank  re¬ 
turned  to  New  York,  we  have  lived  and  worked  together 
in  absolute  harmony  and  mutual  helpfulness.  In  fact, 
the  unity  between  us  has  been  so  complete  that  we  are 
now  inclined  by  contrast  to  consider  each  other  as  having 
been  exceptionally  devilish  and  nasty  during  those  early 
boyhood  years.  I  know,  of  course,  that  the  blame  was 
entirely  his,  as  he  was  so  overbearing  and  presuming  be¬ 
cause  of  the  accident  of  his  earlier  birth,  while  he  is 
equally  convinced  that  I  was  altogether  too  cheeky  for 
my  age  and  it  was  absolutely  necessary  for  my  own  good 
and  future  welfare  to  put  me  where  I  belonged. 

In  1919  I  was  again  asked  to  assume  the  direction  of 
the  Oratorio  Society.  Their  affairs  had  not  prospered 
after  my  brother  had  relinquished  the  conductorship. 
A  huge  debt  threatened  to  engulf  them,  and,  while  I  was 


ORATORIO  SOCIETY  OF  NEW  YORK  185 


overwhelmed  with  work  in  connection  with  the  New  York 
Symphony  Orchestra,  with  which  I  gave  over  a  hundred 
concerts  every  winter,  I  could  not  resist  their  appeal  and 
promised  to  stay  by  them  until  they  could  find  a  per¬ 
manent  conductor  to  their  liking. 

I  am  glad  to  say  that  the  man  was  found  in  Albert 
Stoessel.  He  had  been  a  bandmaster  in  the  A.  E.  F.  dur¬ 
ing  the  war,  had  been  chosen  as  teacher  of  conducting  at 
the  bandmaster’s  school  in  Chaumont,  which  I  had 
founded  for  General  Pershing,  and  had  become  my 
assistant  conductor  at  the  rehearsals  of  the  Oratorio 
Society.  The  chorus  were  delighted  with  him,  and  he  was 
elected  as  regular  conductor  of  the  society  in  1920.  He 
has  already  conducted  two  highly  successful  seasons,  and 
I  think  that  our  beloved  old  society  will  have  many  years 
of  life  and  success  under  his  direction. 


1 


XIV 


THE  NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA 

When  my  father  died  there  were  only  three  symphony 
orchestras  in  America,  the  New  York  Symphony,  the 
New  York  Philharmonic  (Thomas  formed  his  travelling 
orchestra  from  this),  and  the  Boston  Symphony.  The 
last  of  these  was  supported  by  Colonel  Higginson,  and 
was  the  only  one  whose  members  received  weekly  sal¬ 
aries  for  a  season  of  thirty  weeks,  met  every  morning  for 
rehearsal,  and  devoted  themselves  exclusively  to  the 
playing  of  symphonic  music.  It  was  the  first  so-called 
“permanent  orchestra”  founded  in  America.  The  New 
York  orchestras  at  that  time  played  only  a  very  small 
number  of  symphony  concerts,  for  each  of  which  they  had 
about  three  rehearsals.  Their  members  added  to  their 
earnings  by  playing  in  odd  concerts,  opera,  theatre,  in 
fact,  in  almost  anything  that  they  could  find. 

To-day  the  New  York  Symphony  is  splendidly  main¬ 
tained  as  a  permanent  orchestra  through  the  generosity 
of  its  president,  Mr.  Flagler.  The  Philharmonic  is  simi¬ 
larly  supported  by  liberal  contributions  from  various 
sources,  and  other  orchestras  in  Philadelphia,  Chicago, 
Detroit,  Minneapolis,  Cincinnati,  St.  Louis,  San  Francisco, 
and  Los  Angeles  use  from  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  a 
year  upward,  donated  by  their  respective  citizens,  over 
and  above  the  receipts  from  the  sale  of  tickets,  in  order 
to  maintain  themselves  as  permanent  symphonic  or¬ 
ganizations.  Without  such  subsidies  these  orchestras 

could  not  exist,  as,  even  though  the  concerts  are  crowded, 

1 86 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  187 


the  expenditures  are  much  greater  than  any  possible  re¬ 
ceipts. 

I  wonder  how  many  of  the  conductors  of  these  orches¬ 
tras,  who  all  receive  generous  salaries  and  have  no  per¬ 
sonal  financial  risk  in  the  enterprise,  realize  what  up-hill 
pioneer  work  we  had  to  do  in  the  early  days  to  keep  our 
orchestras  alive  and  to  lay  the  musical  foundations  on 
which  they  are  now  so  solidly  built. 

After  my  father’s  death  I  was  elected,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three,  conductor  of  the  New  York  Symphony 
Society.  We  used  to  give  six  concerts  and  six  public  re¬ 
hearsals  during  the  winter,  and  for  the  seven  years  follow¬ 
ing  my  election  this  orchestra  was  also  employed  for  the 
German  opera  at  the  Metropolitan.  But  when  German 
opera  was  supplanted  by  Italian  under  Abbey,  Schoeffel, 
and  Grau,  I  was  hard  put  to  it  to  find  sufficient  work  for 
my  men  to  keep  them  together.  The  little  subsidy  which 
was  at  that  time  contributed  by  the  directors  of  the 
Symphony  Society  was  only  large  enough  to  give  the  six 
regular  concerts  of  the  winter  season.  I  had  learned  the 
difficult  art  of  accompanying  soloists  sympathetically  with 
the  orchestra,  and  the  foreign  artists  who  came  to  Amer¬ 
ica,  such  as  Sarasate,  Ysaye,  d’ Albert,  Joseffy,  Paderewski, 
Kubelik,  and  many  others,  always  chose  my  orchestra 
to  accompany  them.  But  these  concerts  were  compara¬ 
tively  few,  and  I  had  to  look  for  other  ways  of  giving  my 
men  enough  work  to  make  it  worth  their  while  to  stay 
with  me  instead  of  accepting  travelling  engagements 
with  little  opera  companies,  etc.  Gradually  I  developed 
Sunday-afternoon  symphony  concerts,  a  complete  inno¬ 
vation,  as  up  to  that  time  the  only  music  given  on  Sun¬ 
days  was  in  the  evening  and  of  the  more  popular  and 
trivial  character.  I  argued  that  Sunday  was  the  one  day 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


1 88 


in  the  week  when  men  were  not  immersed  in  business 
cares,  and  that  on  that  day  they  and  their  families  would 
be  more  susceptible  to  the  appreciation  of  a  higher  and 
more  serious  class  of  music.  I  therefore  boldly  inaugu¬ 
rated  a  series  of  symphonic  concerts  for  every  Sunday 
afternoon  during  the  winter;  and  my  faith  was  justified, 
as  not  only  were  these  concerts  attended  by  huge  audi¬ 
ences,  but  the  percentage  of  men  was  greater  than  had 
ever  been  seen  at  symphony  concerts  before.  For  sev¬ 
eral  years  I  enjoyed  a  monopoly  of  my  idea,  but  then 
other  orchestras  and  soloists  perceived  its  value,  and  to¬ 
day  I  have  to  share  Sunday  afternoons  with  two  or 
three  other  organizations  who  also  give  high-class  con¬ 
certs,  all  of  which  are  generally  well  attended. 

I  also  gradually  developed  long  spring  tours  with  fifty 
men,  which  in  those  days  was  considered  a  travelling 
orchestra  of  good  size.  On  these  tours  I  penetrated  the 
South,  the  Middle  West,  and,  later  on,  the  Far  West  of 
California  and  Oregon. 

Many  of  the  communities  that  we  visited  had  never 
heard  a  symphony  orchestra  before,  and  for  them  we  did 
real  pioneer  work,  as  I  maintained  a  high  standard  of 
music  on  my  programmes.  The  classics  were,  of  course, 
the  foundation;  but  Wagner  very  soon  became  a  great 
drawing  power,  and  Wagner  programmes  were  often  the 
most  asked  for. 

The  general  plan  of  my  tours  was  to  have  the  advance 
agent  organize  three-day  festivals  with  a  local  chorus 
which  would  take  part  in  some  oratorio  or  concert  ex¬ 
cerpts  from  the  operas  of  Wagner,  Verdi,  etc.  I  would 
also  carry  a  quartet  of  solo  singers,  sometimes  supple¬ 
mented  by  a  “star,”  for  the  average  American  public 
dearly  loves  a  “name.”  Many  of  these  stars  make  their 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  189 


greatest  money  long  after  their  vocal  powers  have  di¬ 
minished,  and  they  are  compelled  to  make  up  this  lack 
by  adventitious  means  such  as  extraordinary  costumes, 
perhaps  more  decollete  than  local  custom  would  sanction, 
but  which  are  always  considered  as  quite  the  right  thing 
for  so  exotic  a  personage  as  the  “prima  donna.” 

During  these  three-day  festivals  we  would  generally 
give  five  concerts,  and,  as  we  often  booked  two  festivals 
in  one  week,  the  ten  concerts  and  necessary  rehearsals 
often  proved  a  great  strain  on  my  vitality.  But  it  had  to 
be  done,  as  the  local  festival  committees  were  compelled 
to  crowd  in  as  many  concerts  as  possible  to  make  their 
expenses.  It  has  always  been  fascinating  to  me  to  do 
pioneer  work,  either  by  organizing  something  new,  intro¬ 
ducing  a  new  composer,  or  penetrating  into  regions  where 
symphonic  music  was  not  yet  known.  The  gratitude  of 
the  people  was  often  very  touching,  and  if  my  profits  at 
the  end  of  an  arduous  tour  were  sometimes  not  so  large 
as  they  should  have  been,  I  had  at  least  kept  my  orches¬ 
tra  together  for  eight,  ten,  or  even  twelve  weeks,  and  had 
enlarged  the  radius  of  musical  activity  by  many  hun¬ 
dreds — sometimes  thousands — of  miles.  I  marvel  now 
at  the  courage  with  which  I  would  start  on  a  tour  in 
which  perhaps  only  half  my  concerts  were  guaranteed, 
and  these  guarantees,  alas,  not  always  paid  up  in  full. 
But  for  years  I  was  almost  the  only  one  travelling  through 
the  country  with  an  orchestra,  and  as  railroad  fares  were 
just  half  of  what  they  are  to-day  I  was  generally  able  to 
end  my  tour  with  some  profit. 

I  also  began  to  tackle  the  question  of  how  to  utilize  my 
orchestra  during  the  summer  months,  and  had  the  good 
luck  to  solve  that  problem  for  many  years  very  effec¬ 
tively.  As  early  as  1885  and  ^86  I  was  invited  by  the 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


190 


Southern  Exposition  of  Louisville,  Kentucky,  to  come 
there  with  my  orchestra  and  play  the  entire  summer, 
giving  two  concerts  a  day.  I  shall  always  look  back  on 
those  two  summers  with  delight  and  gratitude.  I  was 
very  young  and  it  was  my  first  experience  of  a  prolonged 
stay  in  a  Southern  city.  Louisville  at  that  time  was  a 
small  community,  but  with  an  old  civilization  which 
manifested  itself  in  a  circle  of  charming  people  of  estab¬ 
lished  culture  and  social  relations.  They  opened  their 
doors  and  their  hearts  to  my  brother  and  me.  The 
Pendennis  Club,  in  its  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  hos¬ 
pitality,  was  like  a  page  out  of  Thackeray  or  Dickens. 
Most  of  the  people  had  never  heard  symphonic  music, 
and  as  we  played  twice  a  day  for  about  three  months,  I 
gave  them  almost  the  entire  orchestral  repertoire,  rang¬ 
ing  from  the  good  popular  music  of  Johann  Strauss 
through  the  symphonies  of  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  the 
modern  composers,  to  Wagner,  who  immediately  became 
their  “  favorite  composer.”  The  members  of  my  orches¬ 
tra  were  also  received  with  great  cordiality,  and  several 
very  tender  and  romantic  love-affairs  were  the  result. 
I  too  would  gladly  have  fallen  a  victim  to  the  charms  of 
these  Southern  beauties,  but,  alas,  I  was  such  a  hard- 
worked  young  man  with  my  two  concerts  a  day  and  re¬ 
hearsals  that  I  could  not  indulge  myself  much  in  romance. 

One  evening,  during  a  terrific  thunder-storm,  the  light¬ 
ning  crashed  into  the  machinery  furnishing  the  electric 
light  of  the  music-hall,  and  plunged  it  in  darkness.  It 
was  crowded  with  thousands  of  listeners  and  for  a  few 
minutes  there  was  an  awe-struck  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  great  crashes  of  thunder.  Gradually  hysterical  cries 
from  the  women  were  heard  here  and  there  and  a  rush 
for  the  doors  began.  The  darkness  was  intense,  but  I 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  191 


knew  the  orchestra  could  play  the  march  from  “Le 
Prophete”  by  heart,  so  I  shouted  to  them  to  begin  this 
number.  I  can  still  hear  old  Karl  Deis,  who  had  been 
trombone  player  under  my  father,  beginning  all  alone 
with  the  opening  theme,  followed  immediately  by  the 
rest  of  the  orchestra.  I  was  conducting  like  mad,  al¬ 
though,  owing  to  the  darkness,  not  one  of  the  players 
could  see  me,  except  when  the  flashes  of  lightning  mo¬ 
mentarily  illuminated  the  hall;  but  the  music  immediately 
calmed  the  audience,  who  sat  down  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  march  applauded  vociferously.  We  then  started 
the  “Beautiful  Blue  Danube/’  and  in  the  second  bar  the 
electric  lights  of  the  hall  blazed  up  again.  The  following 
evening  the  chief  of  the  fire  department  and  other  city 
officials  appeared,  and  with  several  bottles  of  champagne 
toasted  the  orchestra  and  its  conductor  for  their  “great 
life-saving  act”  of  the  evening  before. 

On  Sundays  there  were  no  concerts,  and  they  became 
blessed  days  of  peace  and  rest.  I  usually  spent  them  at 
the  country  place  of  a  friend — a  roomy,  hospitable, 
Southern  mansion,  delicious  noon  dinner,  and  afterward 
a  lazy,  happy  time  on  the  lawn,  watching  the  horses, 
beautiful,  full-blooded,  Kentucky  bred,  gambolling  about 
without  saddle  or  bridle,  like  young  puppies,  according 
to  the  old-established  Sunday  custom  of  the  place.  To 
the  Kentuckian  the  love  for  his  horses  and  pride  in  their 
qualities  is  part  of  the  romance  of  his  life;  at  least  it 
was  in  those  days,  long  before  the  automobile  had  made 
its  appearance. 

The  many  concerts  at  the  Louisville  Exposition,  coming 
at  the  beginning  of  my  career  as  an  orchestral  con¬ 
ductor,  gave  me  enormous  routine  and  acquaintance 
with  the  entire  orchestral  repertoire. 


192 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


I  found  the  South  exceedingly  receptive.  New  Or¬ 
leans  had,  of  course,  been  a  supporter  of  French  opera 
for  years — its  opera-house  was  one  of  the  most  charming 
I  had  ever  seen — but  I  also  established  new  centres  for 
music,  one  of  which  developed  very  successfully  in  the 
little  town  of  Spartanburg,  South  Carolina.  The  im¬ 
pulse  here  came  from  the  Converse  College  for  Women, 
which  has  a  high  reputation  in  the  South.  The  young 
ladies  of  this  institution  formed  the  nucleus  of  a  large  and 
well-trained  chorus  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  voices.  I 
went  there  with  my  orchestra  every  spring  for  over  ten 
years.  We  succeeded  in  building  up  a  great  love  and  ap¬ 
preciation  for  music  there  and  in  other  near-by  places, 
as  it  was  the  custom  for  the  alumnae  of  the  college  to  re¬ 
turn  to  Spartanburg  for  Music  Festival  week  and  then 
to  carry  back  and  spread  their  musical  enthusiasm  in 
their  home  towns. 

Gradually  I  penetrated  farther  and  farther  West.  In 
1904  I  made  a  tour  as  far  as  Oklahoma  City  with  the  or¬ 
chestra  and  quite  a  large  group  of  solo  singers,  with  whom 
I  gave  excerpts  from  Wagner’s  “Parsifal,”  connecting 
the  various  numbers  with  a  few  explanatory  remarks. 
The  tour  was  highly  successful,  as  the  public  had  read 
much  about  the  first  performances  of  “Parsifal”  at 
Bayreuth  and  New  York,  and  were  keen  to  hear  the 
music.  I  recall  an  amusing  incident  in  Oklahoma  City. 
Our  concert  had  been  scheduled  as  part  of  a  course  of 
entertainments  under  a  local  manager.  The  theatre  was 
crowded  and  I  had  just  finished  the  Prelude  to  “Parsi¬ 
fal”  and  was  ready  to  begin  the  excerpts  from  the  first 
act,  when  suddenly  the  manager  popped  up  on  the 
stage  and  addressed  the  audience  somewhat  as  follows: 
“Ladies  and  gentlemen:  I  am  proud  to  see  so  many  of 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  193 


you  here  to-night  and  take  this  opportunity  of  announc¬ 
ing  to  you  that  I  have  already  made  arrangements  for 
next  season  for  a  course  which  will  be  in  every  respect 
finer  than  the  one  I  am  giving  you  this  year !  I  also 
would  like  to  announce  that  Stewart’s  Oyster  Saloon  will 
be  open  after  the  concert  for  lunch.”  (Sic.)  This  was, 
however,  our  only  interruption,  and  the  rest  of  the  music 
was  listened  to  with  evident  interest  and  enthusiastic 
approval. 

After  the  concert  was  over,  as  I  left  by  the  stage  door 
to  return  to  my  hotel,  I  was  met  by  the  crowd  of  people 
descending  from  the  top  gallery.  A  young  man  who 
had  been  lounging  against  the  stage  entrance  went  up 
to  one  of  the  men  who  was  coming  out  of  the  theatre 
and  said:  “Well,  how  was  it,  Jim?”  and  Jim  answered: 
“This  show  ain’t  worth  thirty  cents.”  The  woes  of  Am- 
jortas  and  the  lilting  measures  of  the  Flower  Maidens  had 
evidently  not  appealed  to  this  young  Oklahoman ! 

In  contrast  to  this  experience  I  should  like  to  relate 
what  happened  another  time  when  we  were  giving  a 
symphony  concert,  perhaps  the  first  ever  heard  there,  at 
Fargo,  North  Dakota.  Efrem  Zimbalist,  delightful  man 
and  artist,  was  our  soloist  on  this  tour,  and  after  the  con¬ 
cert,  when  we  met  for  supper,  he  related  with  shouts  of 
laughter  that  while  I  was  playing  the  “Lenore”  Sympho¬ 
ny,  by  Raff,  he  was  sitting  behind  the  scenes  of  the  “opera- 
house” — every  Western  city  has  a  “grand  opera-house” — 
listening  to  the  music,  when  a  cowboy,  young,  handsome, 
in  flannel  shirt,  high  boots,  slouch  hat,  etc.,  came  on  the 
stage  and  sat  down  amicably  next  to  him.  The  cowboy 
was  perhaps  a  little  “mellow,”  as  this  was  before  the  days 
of  national  prohibition,  but  he  evidently  had  a  musical 
ear,  although  he  had  never  before  in  his  life  heard  a  sym- 


194 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


phony  orchestra.  Every  time  that  the  music  developed 
into  a  kind  of  joyous  climax,  he  would  grab  Zimbalist’s 
knee  in  convulsive  delight  and  shout:  “God  damn  it, 
but  I  like  that  music !”  Then  he  would  sit  in  rapt  silence 
until  the  next  outburst,  when  he  would  again  grab  Zim- 
balist  and  shout:  “They  can  go  to  hell,  but  they  know 
how  to  play !”  We  all  envied  this  man,  because,  no  mat¬ 
ter  how  much  we  may  appreciate  music,  we  have  heard 
so  much  that  we  can  never  again  experience  the  thrill  of 
hearing  a  symphony  orchestra  for  the  first  time  in  our 
lives. 

The  story,  of  course,  went  the  rounds  of  the  orchestra, 
and  for  weeks  afterward,  if  we  were  seated  in  the  dining- 
car  of  our  train,  the  voice  of  one  of  the  musicians  might 
be  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  cars  and  the  din  of  the 
clattering  knives  and  forks  shouting  in  joyous  accents: 
“God  damn  it,  but  I  like  this  omelet !” 

Speaking  of  dining-cars,  on  one  of  our  Western  tours 
during  the  first  years  of  the  war  we  had  heard  much  about 
the  sad  conditions  of  the  Belgians,  whose  territory  had 
been  so  ruthlessly  overrun  by  the  German  armies.  Our 
entire  orchestra  had  just  responded  unanimously  and 
generously  in  contributing  toward  the  Belgian  Relief 
Fund,  and  in  the  dining-car  at  the  table  opposite  mine 
were  seated  our  second  flute  player,  a  Belgian,  together 
with  his  son,  who  was  one  of  our  talented  violoncellists. 
Their  plates  were  heaped  with  turkey,  cranberry  sauce, 
and  potatoes,  and  there  was  an  apple-pie  in  the  offing. 
I  said:  “I  thought  the  Belgians  were  starving !”  “Oh,” 
said  Barrere,  the  ever  ready  and  ever  witty,  “ils  mangent 
pour  Ies  autres.” 

How  much  we  have  owed  on  these  tours  to  George 
Barrere !  He  has  always  been  for  me  a  model  member  of 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  195 


an  orchestra.  He  is  a  great  artist — perhaps  the  greatest 
on  the  flute  that  I  have  ever  heard — but  no  rehearsal  is 
too  long  for  him,  and  the  inevitable  contretemps  of  travel 
are  accepted  by  him  with  imperturbable  good  nature.  I 
have  described  elsewhere  with  what  difficulty  I  was 
enabled  to  import  him  from  France  seventeen  years  ago, 
owing  to  the  opposition  made  by  the  New  York  Musical 
Union,  but  he  has  more  than  justified  his  claims  to 
American  citizenship  since  then,  not  only  by  his  artistic 
work,  but  by  the  group  of  American  pupils  whom  he  has 
gathered  around  him,  who  are  devoted  to  him  and  have 
received  and  made  their  own  much  of  his  artistry.  He 
is  a  delightful  mixture  of  Gallic  wit  and  American  humor. 
He  was  asked  once:  “If  you  were  not  a  musician,  Mon¬ 
sieur  Barr  ere,  what  would  you  like  to  be?”  and  he 
promptly  answered:  “An  orchestral  conductor!”  A 
wicked  remark,  but  as  he  has  since  then  become  the  con¬ 
ductor  of  Barrere’s  Little  Symphony  Orchestra  I  can  give 
him  tit  for  tat. 

When  the  war  broke  out  I  found  that  as  we  had  thir¬ 
teen  nationalities  in  the  orchestra,  including  all  the  na¬ 
tions  at  war,  relations  might  often  become  strained,  es¬ 
pecially  on  our  long  tours  when  the  men  are  forced,  in 
the  sleeping-cars  and  at  the  concerts,  into  constant  and 
close  companionship.  I  therefore  gave  them  a  little  talk 
in  which  I  explained  that  as  they  were  gaining  their 
living  in  this  country  and  as  they  were  artists — for 
otherwise  they  would  not  be  in  the  New  York  Symphony 
— their  first  duties  were  toward  their  art,  toward  me,  and 
toward  their  families  whom  they  were  supporting  in 
honorable  fashion,  and  that  therefore  for  the  time  being 
it  was  for  the  good  of  all  to  sink  their  political  differ¬ 
ences  and  their  various  attitudes  toward  the  war,  and 


196 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


to  live  in  harmony  with  each  other.  This  talk  had  good 
results,  as  during  the  entire  four  years  of  war  I  cannot 
recall  any  serious  difference  or  quarrel  between  them. 

There  were,  of  course,  serious  discussions  and  some¬ 
times  good-natured  raillery.  At  that  time  Rudolf  Riss- 
Iand  was  the  leader  of  my  second  violins  and  had  charge 
of  the  orchestra  during  the  long  tours.  He  has  been  with 
me  a  great  many  years  and  I  value  him  highly  as  a  man 
of  character  and  loyalty.  He  is  of  German  birth,  and, 
although  he  had  become  a  patriotic  American,  he 
always  wore  his  blond  moustache  combed  upward  in 
German  fashion.  We  had  been  informed  before  our 
Canadian  tour  that  no  players  of  German  birth  would  be 
admitted  into  Canada,  but,  thanks  to  the  British  ambas¬ 
sador,  Sir  Cecil  Spring-Rice,  an  old  friend  of  my  wife’s 
family,  we  received  a  special  permission  for  the  few 
German-born  who  had  not  yet  received  their  second 
citizen  papers,  to  enter  Canada,  as  I  gladly  made  myself 
responsible  for  them.  We  were  the  only  orchestra  that 
gave  concerts  in  Toronto  and  Montreal  during  the  war. 
On  this  particular  trip,  after  our  train  had  left  Toronto, 
the  orchestra  began  to  twit  Rissland  unmercifully,  ac¬ 
cusing  him  of  having  in  most  cowardly  fashion  combed  his 
moustache  downward  before  coming  on  the  stage  for 
the  concert.  At  first  he  denied  this  absolutely,  but 
finally  confessed  that  he  had  combed  down  the  side  turned 
toward  the  audience,  but  had  kept  the  other  side  defiantly 
turned  upward ! 

The  idea  of  venting  their  feelings  against  a  nation  by 
maltreating  the  music  of  its  composers  at  rehearsals  or 
concerts  never  entered  the  minds  of  our  players.  Our 
Frenchmen  would  play  a  symphony  of  Beethoven  or  an 
excerpt  from  a  Wagner  music-drama  with  the  same  care 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  197 


and  enthusiasm  as  a  work  by  one  of  their  own  composers. 
The  same  was  true  vice  versa  of  our  German-born  mem¬ 
bers.  To  the  good  musician  art  is  international,  although 
each  nation  has  its  own  standards  and  traditions  of  inter¬ 
pretation,  and  it  is  interesting  to  note  how  sharply  op¬ 
posed  these  sometimes  are.  There  is  often  a  curious 
racial  antagonism  between  the  French  and  Italian  mu¬ 
sicians.  The  Frenchman  will  insist  that  the  phrasing  of 
the  Italian  is  sloppy  and  hypersentimental,  while  the 
Italian  will  retort  that  the  Frenchman’s  is  academic  and 
rigid.  Every  nation  has  its  excellent  qualities,  and  the 
finest  orchestra  in  the  world  is  one  composed  of  the  best 
of  the  different  nationalities  moulded  into  one  harmoni¬ 
ous  whole  by  a  master  conductor  without  racial  musical 
prejudice. 

Our  visits  to  California  were  perhaps  enjoyed  the  most 
of  all.  These  began  long  before  the  earthquake  and  fire 
had  destroyed  the  old  San  Francisco,  and  when  the  city 
had  all  the  romance  of  earlier  days  and  Chinatown  was 
still  an  exotic  and  fascinating  region  of  mystery.  The 
society  of  San  Francisco  was  different  from  that  of  any 
other  city  in  the  United  States.  It  was  composed  largely 
of  restless  pioneers  from  the  East  and  from  other  coun¬ 
tries  who,  having  “ worked  their  way”  across  the  con¬ 
tinent,  had  finally  stopped  and  settled  in  San  Francisco 
because  the  Pacific  Ocean  prevented  them  from  going 
still  farther,  and  also  because  in  California  nature  opened 
both  arms  wide  in  welcome,  and  gave  of  her  bounty  so  freely 
that  life  and  the  necessity  of  supporting  it  became  an  easy 
matter.  Many  of  the  well-to-do  sent  their  sons  and 
daughters,  not  to  New  York  and  Boston,  but  to  Paris 
and  London,  for  their  education.  Society  was  interna¬ 
tional  in  that  it  comprised  Americans,  Germans,  French, 


1 98 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


and  Italians.  They  all  loved  music  instinctively,  and  gave 
it  enthusiastic  acclaim,  much  as  in  a  city  of  Italy  or  the 
Midi  of  France. 

Few  trained  symphony  orchestras  had  penetrated  so 
far  West,  and  my  orchestra  was  a  revelation  to  many  of 
our  hearers. 

For  me  there  were  also  pleasant  visits  to  San  Mateo 
and  other  beautiful  places  near  by,  where  one  could  see  a 
good  game  of  polo  or  tennis  and  have  one’s  gastronomic 
needs  delightfully  ministered  to  by  Chinese  cooks  and 
Japanese  butlers.  In  those  days  Los  Angeles  was  but  a 
small  city  and  no  one  then  dreamed  of  the  unique  and 
lightning-like  development  which  has  made  it  in  a  few 
years  one  of  the  most  important  cities  in  America. 

In  continuing  our  tour  farther  north  we  came  under 
the  management  of  two  very  remarkable  women,  under 
the  firm  name  of  “  Steers  and  Coman,”  who  virtually 
control  the  musical  field  from  Oregon  and  Washington 
as  far  east  as  Denver.  Miss  Lois  Steers  and  Miss  Wynne 
Coman  live  in  Portland,  Oregon.  By  dint  of  their  organ¬ 
izing  genius  and  enthusiasm  for  music,  and  an  absolute 
integrity  in  all  business  dealings,  they  have  not  only  won 
the  highest  respect  and  confidence  of  the  communities 
to  which  they  minister  but  have  built  up  a  very  ef¬ 
fective  organization.  Under  their  auspices  every  great 
artist  who  has  ever  visited  this  country  has  appeared 
not  only  in  the  larger  cities  of  the  States  which  they 
control,  but  in  many  of  the  smaller  university  towns  and 
farming  communities  in  which  the  Misses  Steers  and 
Coman  have  been  able  to  develop  an  interest  in  music. 
They  are  not  only  business  women  of  superior  qualities, 
but  ladies  of  such  fine  sympathies  and  breeding  that  I 
have  always  felt  particularly  honored  by  their  friendship. 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  199 


On  our  tours,  Miss  Steers  usually  attended  to  the  local 
needs  of  the  cities  we  visited — the  music  committees,  the 
hall  managers,  and  the  newspapers — while  Miss  Coman 
travelled  with  us  as  general  railroad  manager,  baggage 
despatcher,  and  “ committee  of  one,”  to  smooth  out  all 
difficulties,  adjust  any  disputes  and,  in  general,  to  “oil  the 
wheels.”  As  soon  as  we  came  into  their  territory  every¬ 
thing  moved  like  clockwork.  I  remember  one  agonizing 
day,  however,  when  we  had  to  make  Salt  Lake  City  from 
the  West  and  terrible  floods  had  disarranged  all  railroad 
schedules.  The  final  jolt  came  when,  at  some  station  on 
the  way,  John  Drew’s  two  cars  containing  his  dramatic 
company  and  scenery  were  added  to  our  already  over¬ 
heavy  train  because  the  floods  had  compelled  him  also 
to  change  his  route.  All  hope  of  reaching  Salt  Lake  City 
in  time  for  our  concert  seemed  gone.  Miss  Coman  hopped 
onto  the  engine  and  sat  down  next  to  the  engineer  and 
stoker.  I  did  not  know  whether  she  used  a  woman’s 
wiles  or  brute  force  or  a  combination  of  both,  but  we 
arrived  in  Salt  Lake  City  at  nine  p.  m.  on  a  lovely  sum¬ 
mer  evening.  An  audience  of  two  thousand  had  been 
notified  that  we  would  be  late  and  were  calmly  promenad¬ 
ing  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  theatre.  Trucks  were  in 
waiting  at  the  station  to  rush  our  baggage  to  the  audi¬ 
torium,  our  men  had  put  on  their  evening  dress  in  the 
baggage-car,  and  I  began  the  opening  overture  with  all 
the  instruments  properly  tuned  at  ten  minutes  before 
ten.  Symphony  concerts  were  so  few  and  far  between 
in  Salt  Lake  City  that  the  audience  did  not  mind  this 
long  wait  one  little  bit. 

Of  course  all  these  difficulties  could  not  have  been  so 
happily  solved  had  I  not  always  had  devoted  and  efficient 
heads  of  the  different  departments  of  our  organization. 


200 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


George  Engles  is  the  most  careful  of  business  managers; 
Rissland,  the  orchestra  manager,  has  always  been  tireless 
in  his  efforts  to  keep  the  men  in  good  discipline  and 
spirits  and  to  look  after  their  welfare;  and  Hans  Goettich, 
who  has  been  my  baggage-master  and  librarian  for  over 
twenty-five  years,  is  a  perfect  marvel.  I  remember 
seeing  him  flag  an  entire  train  because  he  had  suddenly 
noticed  that  our  baggage-car,  containing  all  our  music 
and  musical  instruments,  had  been  hooked  on  to  it  by 
mistake.  As  this  train  was  going  to  New  Orleans,  while 
we  were  headed  for  Chicago,  we  would  have  had  to  stop 
giving  concerts  for  several  days  until  that  baggage-car 
had  been  traced  and  sent  back  to  us !  On  Goettich  de¬ 
volves  the  entire  responsibility  for  the  library,  which  is 
packed  in  dozens  of  boxes  and  kept  according  to  a  system 
of  his  own.  On  these  long  tours  our  programmes  are 
changed  more  or  less  every  day,  partly  to  avoid  the 
monotony  of  repetition  for  us  and  partly  because  each 
community  has  its  own  needs  according  to  its  stage  of 
musical  development,  which  I  try  to  gauge  very  thor¬ 
oughly  when  making  up  my  programmes.  This  means 
incessant  work  for  the  librarian  and  mistakes  might  easily 
occur,  but  during  all  these  years  I  cannot  recall  a  single 
concert  when,  through  fault  of  Goettich’s,  an  orchestral 
part  has  been  lost  or  misplaced.  This  is  a  remarkable 
record. 

I  remember  giving  a  symphony  concert  in  William  J. 
Bryan’s  town  of  Lincoln,  Nebraska.  I  found  a  typical 
Middle  Western  community,  living  in  nice  houses  with 
green  lawns,  with  neatly  bricked  streets  and  concrete 
sidewalks,  and  roomy  large-windowed  schools.  The 
theatre  in  which  we  played  was  thoroughly  modern,  clean, 
and  well  lighted,  and  the  audience  well  dressed  and  ap- 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  201 


preciative.  One  of  my  double-bass  players  told  me  that 
he  had  played  there  thirty  years  before  with  Theodore 
Thomas.  In  those  days  Lincoln  was  but  a  frontier  town 
and  the  theatre  and  the  public  who  had  come  to  hear  the 
Thomas  Orchestra  were  of  a  more  or  less  primitive  char¬ 
acter.  My  double-bass  player  told  me  that  with  a  col¬ 
league,  whose  head  was  devoid  of  hair,  he  had  stood  di¬ 
rectly  below  a  proscenium  box  in  which  a  group  of  cow¬ 
boys  were  seated.  While  the  orchestra  was  playing 
Beethoven’s  “Fifth  Symphony,”  one  of  these  cowboys, 
who  was  chewing  tobacco  violently,  amused  himself  by 
spitting  frequently  and  always  aiming  for  the  bald  head 
of  the  bass  player,  who  had  to  keep  one  agitated  eye  on 
the  conductor  and  the  other  on  this  horribly  resource¬ 
ful  listener,  in  order  to  avoid  his  only  too-well-directed 
shots. 

Our  orchestra  always  enjoyed  the  long  spring  tours, 
although  now  and  then  uncomfortable  happenings  would 
mar  their  pleasure.  Nothing  makes  a  musician  so  ill- 
natured  as  to  be  deprived  of  a  good  square  meal,  and 
sometimes  our  dining-car  would  not  connect  properly  or 
we  would  be  so  delayed  as  to  arrive  in  a  town  only  just 
in  time  to  rush  to  the  theatre  and  give  our  concert. 
Then  I  would  have  to  exert  all  my  powers  as  an  orator  to 
induce  them  to  go  directly  to  the  theatre  instead  of 
“loitering  by  the  wayside,”  and  I  would  quickly  order 
large  quantities  of  ham  and  swiss-cheese  sandwiches  to 
be  distributed  behind  the  scenes  just  before  the  concert. 

At  present  our  players  while  on  tour  receive  so  much 
per  day  above  their  salaries  for  meals  and  beds,  but  in 
the  early  days  I  used  to  pay  their  hotel  expenses,  my 
manager  engaging  rooms  and  arranging  the  rates  “on  the 
American  plan”  before  we  arrived  in  the  city  in  which  we 


202 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


were  to  play.  This  system,  however,  never  worked  well 
because  there  was  always  intense  jealousy  among  the 
musicians  as  to  the  quality  or  conveniences  of  their 
respective  rooms;  and  if  the  first  oboe  found  that  his 
room  did  not  front  on  as  agreeable  a  locality  as  that  of 
the  first  horn,  he  would  perhaps  sulk  and  consider  that 
he  had  been  unfairly  treated.  The  newer  arrangement 
proved  much  better,  as  it  enabled  some  to  save  from  the 
money  allowed  them  and  permitted  others  to  “splurge” 
by  spending  more. 

I  remember  that  once  in  those  early  days  we  had  to 
fill  in  a  date  in  a  small  New  York  State  town  on  our  way 
to  Canada.  The  principal  hotel  had  room  for  only  about 
twenty,  and  the  other  members  of  the  orchestra  were 
quartered  in  four  other  hotels.  Naturally  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  five  who  were  put  into  the  last  of  these  had  a  terrible 
story  to  tell  of  their  sufferings  when  we  met  the  following 
morning  at  the  station.  To  be  sure,  the  manager  of  the 
hotel  had  charged  only  a  dollar  for  each  person,  and  this 
included  his  supper,  bed,  and  breakfast,  but  their  rooms 
had  been  dismal  and  the  beds  hard.  The  climax  was 
reached  in  the  morning,  when,  as  a  frowsy  waitress  be¬ 
gan  to  serve  them  their  breakfast  in  the  fly-specked 
dining-room  on  a  table  covered  with  the  inevitable  dirty 
red  and  white  checked  cloth,  the  manager,  putting  his 
head  in  at  the  door,  shouted:  “Lizzie,  no  eggs  for  the 
band!”  This  phrase  became  a  catchword  in  the  orches¬ 
tra,  and  whenever  my  manager  or  I  refused  anything  to 
our  men,  the  cry  immediately  resounded:  “Of  course,  no 
eggs  for  the  band!” 

Orchestra  players  through  experience  become  remark¬ 
ably  routined  travellers.  They  know  the  good  hotels  and 
restaurants  in  every  city  of  the  Union,  and  during  the 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  203 

long  railroad  jumps,  especially  west  of  the  Mississippi, 
where  distances  between  important  cities  become  greater 
and  greater,  they  know  how  to  amuse  themselves,  each 
one  according  to  his  fashion.  There  are,  of  course,  a  few 
groups  who  play  poker  violently  from  morning  till  night. 
Others  are  equally  constant  to  pinochle  or  bridge,  while  a 
few  are  perfect  sharks  at  chess.  The  Frenchmen,  as  well 
as  the  Russian  Jews,  are  great  readers  of  serious  litera¬ 
ture,  and  books  on  history,  philosophy,  and  music  are  in 
great  demand  among  them.  Whenever  the  train  stops, 
even  for  a  few  minutes,  a  dozen  jump  off  to  play  ball. 
As  a  rule,  during  the  day  we  have  two  cars,  one  of  which 
is  given  up  to  the  smokers,  where  indeed  the  air  becomes 
so  thick  that  one  could  cut  it  with  a  knife.  At  night 
three  or  four  sleepers  are  necessary  to  take  care  of  us  com¬ 
fortably.  The  old  days,  when  I  travelled  with  fifty  men, 
have  gone  long  ago,  and  now  we  should  not  think  of  touring 
with  an  orchestra  of  less  than  eighty-five. 

The  time  for  spring  tours  seems  to  be  passing,  however, 
as  the  Western  cities  are  beginning  to  minister  to  the  needs 
of  their  respective  communities  with  their  own  excellent 
orchestras. 

For  many  years  I  accepted  long  summer  engagements 
with  two  concerts  every  day,  first  at  Willow  Grove  near 
Philadelphia,  and  then  at  Ravinia  Park,  on  the  North 
Shore  near  Chicago.  The  former  became  a  great  educa¬ 
tional  factor,  as  Philadelphia  at  that  time  had  no  orches¬ 
tra  of  its  own.  Willow  Grove  Park  is  situated  seventeen 
miles  from  that  city  and  was  built  by  the  Rapid  Transit 
Company  in  order  to  stimulate  travel  on  their  trolley 
lines.  The  first  season,  for  which  a  military  band  had 
been  engaged,  had  not  proven  a  success,  and  I  was  in¬ 
vited  the  following  year  in  the  hope  that  a  symphonic 


204 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


organization  might  do  better.  I  began  by  giving  them 
popular  programmes  of  good  music  with  a  regular  sym¬ 
phony  night  every  Monday  and  a  Wagner  programme 
every  Friday  evening,  with  excellent  results.  Our  audi¬ 
ences  usually  numbered  from  fifteen  to  twenty  thousand. 
The  Rapid  Transit  Company,  realizing  the  importance 
of  the  concerts,  promptly  built  a  huge  open-air  audi¬ 
torium  after  my  own  design,  consisting  of  only  a  roof 
on  pillars  connecting  with  the  shell  in  which  the  orchestra 
was  placed.  The  acoustics  proved  exceedingly  good  and 
the  out-of-doors  atmosphere  was  preserved. 

I  continued  these  concerts  for  seven  seasons,  thereby 
developing  an  audience  for  symphonic  music  which 
eventually  and  inevitably  demanded  a  resident  orchestra 
of  its  own.  To-day  the  Philadelphia  orchestra,  under  the 
leadership  of  Leopold  Stokowski,  ranks  as  one  of  the 
foremost  of  our  country.  Its  concerts  are  crowded  to 
the  doors  and  I  like  to  think  that  our  seven  years  of 
pioneer  work  in  Willow  Grove  have  helped  to  lay  its 

foundations. 

I  also  conducted  a  series  of  concerts  at  Ravinia  Park, 
organized  by  the  Chicago  and  Milwaukee  Electric  Rail¬ 
way  to  serve  a  similar  commercial  purpose.  Chicago  had, 
of  course,  enjoyed  for  years  the  splendid  winter  concerts 
of  the  Chicago  Orchestra,  first  under  Theodore  Thomas 
and  then  under  his  successor,  Frederick  Stock,  but  this 
was  the  first  time  that  symphonic  concerts  were  given 
during  the  summer  amid  such  charming  surroundings 
on  the  borders  of  Lake  Michigan.  These  concerts  proved 
exceedingly  popular,  the  audiences  consisting  not  only 
of  the  North  Shore  residents  but  of  thousands  who  came 
out  from  Chicago  on  trains  and  trolleys. 

After  several  years  of  this  work,  however,  the  incessant 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  205 


daily  concerts,  coming  after  an  arduous  winter  season, 
began  to  pall  on  my  musical  nerves.  I  ran  a  real  danger, 
if  I  continued,  of  becoming  nothing  but  a  musical  rou- 
tinier,  with  an  inevitable  loss  of  the  enthusiasm  and  fresh¬ 
ness  which  is  an  absolute  necessity  for  the  interpreter. 
I  therefore  gave  up  all  conducting  during  the  summer 
months. 

I  founded  the  Damrosch  Opera  Company  in  1895,  and 
the  harassing  question  of  how  to  maintain  my  orchestra 
seemed  solved,  for,  during  the  first  year,  my  opera  season 
lasted  thirteen  weeks  and  during  the  following  three 
years,  from  twenty  to  thirty  weeks  each.  This  not  only 
enabled  me  to  maintain  a  beautifully  trained  orchestra 
for  the  Wagner  operas,  but  also  gave  to  my  symphony 
performances  a  greater  finish.  The  orchestra  was  now 
under  my  exclusive  control  and  could  rehearse  as  often 
as  the  endowed  orchestra  of  Colonel  Higginson.  But  as 
it  was  the  opera  that  enabled  me  to  give  my  men  such  a 
long  engagement,  its  needs  had  to  control  all  other  ar¬ 
rangements,  and  gradually  the  regular  sequence  of  my 
winter  concerts  in  New  York  began  to  suffer.  I  could 
not  keep  my  opera  company  in  New  York  except  for  a 
limited  period  each  year,  and  therefore  had  to  fill  in  much 
of  my  time  in  Philadelphia,  Boston,  and  the  larger  cities 
of  the  South  and  Middle  West.  In  1899  I  was  therefore 
finally  compelled  to  give  up  the  regular  subscription 
series  of  our  New  York  concerts  and  the  New  York  Sym¬ 
phony  Orchestra  became  a  part  of  my  travelling  operatic 
organization. 

I  made  this  sacrifice  with  a  heavy  heart,  but  at  that 
time  it  was  the  only  solution.  An  orchestra  devoted  only 
to  concerts  could  not  be  maintained  without  an  endow¬ 
ment,  and  that  I  did  not  have  at  the  time,  while  the 


206 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


length  of  my  Wagner  opera  season  enabled  me  not  only 
to  give  my  men  a  good  engagement  but  to  have  the  pick 
of  the  best  musicians  in  New  York. 

From  then  on  until  1903  most  of  our  playing  of  sym¬ 
phonic  music  was  only  on  our  spring  concert  tours  and 
at  irregular  intervals  in  New  York. 

In  1900  Maurice  Grau  asked  me  to  conduct  the  Wag¬ 
ner  operas  at  the  Metropolitan,  and  in  the  spring  of  1902, 
at  the  close  of  my  second  season  with  him,  I  received  an 
invitation  from  the  New  York  Philharmonic  Society  to 
become  its  conductor.  This  invitation  was  a  great  sur¬ 
prise  to  me,  as  the  Philharmonic  had  been,  ever  since  my 
father’s  day,  the  rival  orchestra.  In  many  ways  it 
seemed  a  flattering  proposition,  as  it  was  the  oldest  or¬ 
ganization  of  its  kind  in  America  and  had  had  an  honor¬ 
able  history.  Under  the  leadership  of  Theodore  Thomas 
and  later  on  of  Anton  SeidI,  the  audiences  had  been  large 
and  its  affairs  had  prospered.  It  had  always  been  a  co¬ 
operative  association,  composed  of  the  members  of  the 
orchestra,  who  had  complete  control  of  its  affairs,  receiv¬ 
ing  no  salaries,  but  dividing  the  profits  equally  among 
themselves  at  the  end  of  each  season.  I  accepted  the 
conductorship,  but  found  very  soon  that  my  acceptance 
was  a  blunder.  The  society  had  come  upon  evil  days,  and 
under  its  last  conductor  attendance  had  dwindled  to  less 
than  one-half.  Of  the  membership  of  the  orchestra  only 
the  skeleton  remained,  and  I  found  to  my  amazement 
that  of  the  hundred  players  at  the  concerts,  less  than 
fifty  were  actual  members  of  the  organization,  the  rest 
being  engaged  from  outside,  and  often  changed  from  one 
concert  to  another.  Some  of  the  members  were  old  men  • 
who  should  no  longer  have  played  in  the  orchestra  at  all; 
but  they  were  devoted  to  the  concerts  of  the  society,  and 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  207 


as  the  orchestra  was  regulated  by  their  votes,  they  nat¬ 
urally  would  not  vote  themselves  out  of  it.  Many  of 
them  had  been  excellent  musicians  and  were  personally 
upright  men,  but  age,  alas,  is  no  respecter  of  technic, 
and  the  fingers  of  the  left  hand  and  the  muscles  of  the  bow 
arm  gradually  stiffen  with  advancing  years.  Most  of 
the  wind  instruments  were  outsiders  and  therefore  could 
not  be  properly  controlled  regarding  their  attendance  at 
rehearsals  and  concerts,  while,  on  the  contrary,  nearly  all 
of  the  first  violins  were  old  members,  several  of  whom 
were  no  longer  fit  to  play  first  violin. 

The  fact  was  that  Colonel  Higginson,  of  Boston,  with 
his  permanent  orchestra  composed  of  young  men,  many 
of  them  the  best  of  their  kind,  with  their  daily  rehearsals 
and  at  least  seventy-five  symphony  concerts  a  season, 
had  set  a  new  standard  of  orchestral  technic  which  the 
old  Philharmonic,  under  its  archaic  conditions,  could  not 
hope  to  equal. 

The  only  solution  seemed  to  me  to  lie  in  gathering  to¬ 
gether  a  fund  large  enough  to  produce  the  same  condi¬ 
tions  and  results  as  Higginson  had  achieved  in  the  Boston 
Orchestra,  and,  above  all,  to  put  the  management  of  the 
Philharmonic  into  the  hands  of  a  committee  which  should 
not  be  composed  of  members  of  the  orchestra,  but  of 
music  lovers  and  guarantors  of  the  fund. 

I  discussed  this  idea  with  several  of  my  friends  and 
some  old  subscribers  and  friends  of  the  Philharmonic  at 
a  meeting  held  on  January  5,  1903,  and  it  was  resolved 
to  obtain  a  fund  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  four 
years,  to  be  administered  for  the  benefit  of  the  Phil¬ 
harmonic  Society  as  a  permanent  orchestra  fund  by  a 
board  of  fifteen  or  more  trustees,  but  it  was  not  to  be 
subject  to  the  control  of  the  Philharmonic  Society . 


208 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


This  fund  was  to  be  the  beginning  of  an  endowment  for 
a  permanent  orchestra,  of  which  the  Philharmonic  Society 
was  to  be  the  nucleus.  The  terms  of  the  deed  of  trust 
under  which  the  fund  was  to  be  held  were  to  be  de¬ 
termined  by  a  committee  of  three,  consisting  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Untermyer,  Mr.  John  Notman,  and  Mr.  E. 
Francis  Hyde. 

The  members  of  the  Philharmonic  Orchestra  were  not 
unfavorably  disposed  toward  our  scheme.  The  idea  of 
being  guaranteed  a  yearly  salary  instead  of  sharing 
problematic  yearly  profits,  naturally  appealed  to  them; 
but  when  our  committee  explained  to  them  that,  under 
the  terms  of  such  an  endowment,  several  of  the  playing 
members  would  have  to  resign  their  places  because  in  the 
opinion  of  the  committee  they  had  passed  the  age  of 
usefulness,  they  rebelled.  Nor  did  they  feel  inclined  to 
give  up  the  absolute  management  of  their  concerts. 

Among  the  most  respected  members  of  the  Philhar¬ 
monic  Orchestra  were  two  old  violinists.  The  one, 
Richard  Arnold,  vice-president  of  the  society,  had  been 
concert  master  under  my  father  twenty-five  years  before 
and  still  officiated  in  that  position  in  the  Philharmonic. 
The  other,  August  Roebbelin,  who  had  played  as  first 
violinist  in  the  orchestra  for  nearly  forty  years,  had  also 
acted  as  manager  of  the  society  and  unselfishly  given  his 
best  energies  to  its  affairs.  As  a  violinist,  however,  he 
had  passed  his  time  of  usefulness.  Our  committee,  per¬ 
haps  rather  bluntly,  informed  the  Philharmonic  com¬ 
mittee  that  under  the  reorganization  the  selection  of  the 
orchestra  must  be  left  in  the  hands  of  the  conductor  and 
that  Mr.  Arnold  would  have  to  content  himself  with  a 
second  position  at  the  first  stand,  so  that  a  younger  artist 
could  become  concert  master,  and  that  several  of  the  first 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  209 


violinists,  among  them  Mr.  Roebbelin,  would  have  to  be 
retired  altogether. 

I  had  made  it  particularly  clear  that  my  selection  as 
conductor  for  the  following  year  was  not  in  any  way  a 
necessary  part  of  the  reorganization  scheme,  as  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  only  way  to  achieve  a  real  permanent  or¬ 
chestra  for  New  York  was  to  unite  the  conflicting  fac¬ 
tions  and  to  let  the  choice  of  conductor  be  made  after  the 
organization  had  been  properly  placed  upon  a  sound  and 
comprehensive  basis. 

After  lengthy  negotiations  the  Philharmonic,  in  a  letter 
of  February  28,  1903,  definitely  refused  the  offer  of  the 
reorganization  committee  because,  as  their  secretary  ex¬ 
pressed  it,  the  amendments  required  by  our  committee 
“would  so  change  the  nature  of  the  society  as  to  seri¬ 
ously  interfere  with  the  control  of  its  affairs  by  its  mem¬ 
bers,  which  has  always  been  its  vital  principle,  and  that 
the  future  prosperity  of  the  society  would  thereby  be 
impaired.” 

As  I  had  no  desire  to  continue  another  year  with  the 
orchestra  on  the  basis  of  existing  conditions,  I  wrote  to 
Mr.  Arnold  and  requested  that  my  name  be  not  proposed 
as  a  candidate  for  the  following  year.  I  had  been  in  a 
very  delicate  position  during  all  this  time,  as  I  had 
grown  quite  fond  personally  of  some  of  the  very  men 
whom,  for  artistic  reasons,  it  was  necessary  to  retire.  It 
was  not  in  human  nature  that  they  should  have  seen 
themselves  as  others  saw  them,  or  heard  themselves  as 
others  heard  them,  and  at  our  rehearsals  and  concerts 
they  all  certainly  gave  the  best  that  was  in  them.  The 
changes  which  I  had  proposed  were  necessary,  however, 
if  the  society  expected  to  continue  its  existence  as  an  or¬ 
chestral  body. 


210 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


For  a  few  years  they  staved  off  the  inevitable  by  en¬ 
gaging  for  each  season  a  number  of  European  guest  con¬ 
ductors.  This  served  as  a  stop-gap,  as  it  diverted  the  at¬ 
tention  of  the  audience  from  the  deficiencies  in  the  or¬ 
chestra  to  the  different  and  interesting  personalities  and 
musical  specialties  of  the  conductors.  But  then  a  reor¬ 
ganization  plan,  exactly  on  the  lines  originally  proposed 
by  me,  completely  eliminating  the  power  of  the  orches¬ 
tral  players  to  manage  the  concerts  or  to  select  the 
players  in  the  orchestra,  was  accepted  by  them,  and  to¬ 
day  the  orchestra  of  the  Philharmonic  Society  is  organized 
and  successfully  working  on  exactly  the  same  basis  as  the 
New  York  Symphony  Society  and  the  Boston  Orchestra. 

For  me  the  rejection  of  our  reorganization  plan  was  at 
the  time  naturally  a  great  disappointment,  but  not  for 
long,  as  my  efforts  had  made  new  friends  for  me  and  in 
a  new  direction,  which  eventually  proved  a  turning-point 
in  my  life. 

On  March  19,  1903,  I  received  a  letter  which  read  as 
follows : 

I  have  been  instructed  by  the  members  of  the  Permanent  Or¬ 
chestra  Fund  Committee  to  express  to  you  their  appreciation  of  the 
spirit  of  unselfishness  and  of  loyalty  to  the  highest  artistic  interests 
which  has  characterized  your  attitude  during  the  negotiations  which 
have  been  in  progress  between  our  Committee  and  the  Philharmonic 
Society.  We  regret  that  a  consolidation  of  our  interests  has  proved 
impossible,  but  we  relinquish  the  plan  we  had  in  view  with  the  great¬ 
est  respect  and  admiration  for  your  broad  attitude  of  mind  in  regard 
to  the  undertaking,  for  your  musicianship,  and  for  your  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  music  in  which  we  are  all  working. 

Harry  Harkness  Flagler, 
Secretary  Permanent  Orchestra  Fund. 

Years  before  I  had  met  Mr.  Flagler  through  his  friend, 
Max  Alvary,  when  the  latter  was  a  member  of  the  Dam- 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  21 1 


rosch  Opera  Company,  but  the  meeting  was  quite  casual 
and  I  had  not  seen  him  again  until  the  meetings  of  the 
Philharmonic  Orchestra  Fund  Committee,  of  which  he 
had  become  a  member.  I  had  been  singularly  attracted 
by  him  and  his  gentle  and  quiet,  almost  diffident  manner. 
He  had  been  a  great  lover  of  music  all  his  life  and  had 
found  in  his  wife  Anne  an  enthusiastic  companion  in 
his  love  for  the  art.  As  the  reorganization  scheme  of  the 
Philharmonic  Orchestra  gradually  unfolded  itself,  he  be¬ 
came  more  and  more  interested  in  it  as  the  right  solution 
of  the  problem  of  developing  a  symphony  orchestra  in 
New  York  which  should  be  the  equal  of  the  Boston  Sym¬ 
phony  or  the  Chicago  Orchestra,  and  he  was  ready  to 
help  such  a  scheme  to  the  fulness  of  his  financial  ability. 
Very  quickly  after  the  failure  of  this  project,  many  of  the 
forces  concerned  recruited  themselves  anew,  and  a  large 
proportion  of  the  would-be  guarantors  turned  to  me  with 
the  suggestion  to  reorganize  the  New  York  Symphony 
Orchestra,  and  by  subsidizing  all  the  first  players  and 
thereby  binding  them  to  the  orchestra,  make  a  new  be¬ 
ginning  in  the  right  direction.  During  the  interregnum  of 
three  years  the  orchestra  had  maintained  itself  fairly 
well  through  the  earnings  of  our  long  spring  tours  and 
summer  engagements,  but  I  joyfully  hailed  this  opportun¬ 
ity  to  renew  the  New  York  winter  concerts.  A  reorgani¬ 
zation  of  the  Symphony  Society  of  New  York  was  quickly 
effected  by  the  re-election  of  most  of  the  old  directors 
and  of  many  new  ones.  My  old  and  loyal  friend,  Daniel 
Frohman,  at  whose  theatre  I  had  given  many  a  Wagner 
lecture  in  the  years  past,  accepted  the  presidency  pro 
tern  and  was  of  great  assistance  in  procuring  outside  work 
for  the  members  of  the  orchestra.  He  was  succeeded  by 
Mr.  Samuel  Sanford,  a  man  of  real  musical  ability,  who 


212 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


had  founded  the  musical  department  at  Yale  Uni¬ 
versity  and  had  contributed  liberally  to  many  musical 
enterprises.  He  immediately  became  one  of  the  largest 
guarantors  of  our  orchestra  fund. 

We  accordingly  resumed  our  New  York  concerts  under 
the  best  possible  auspices  with  an  enthusiastic  directorate 
and  a  large  subscription  list.  I  was,  however,  not  satis¬ 
fied  with  the  wood-wind  players  at  that  time  available 
in  New  York.  The  Musical  Union,  which  controlled  all 
orchestral  players,  had  made  the  influx  of  good  musicians 
from  Europe  almost  an  impossibility  by  insisting  that  a 
player  must  have  lived  at  least  six  months  in  this  country 
before  he  could  join  the  union,  and  that  until  he  became 
a  member  no  other  member  of  the  union  would  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  play  with  him.  As  all  orchestral  engagements  in 
opera,  concert,  or  theatre  were  in  the  hands  of  union 
men,  this  meant  that  the  newcomer  would  have  to  starve 
for  six  months  before  he  could  begin  to  earn  a  dollar  to¬ 
ward  his  maintenance.  This  law  was  not  enforced  by 
the  union  men  for  patriotic  reasons,  as  most  of  them  had 
been  born  in  Europe,  but  because  they  feared  the  possi¬ 
ble  competition  for  the  positions  they  monopolized.  The 
best  wood-wind  players  at  that  time — and,  generally 
speaking,  this  applies  to-day — were  French  or  Belgian. 
The  Conservatoire  of  Paris  has  for  years  produced  very 
superior  artists  on  these  instruments.  The  Boston  Or¬ 
chestra,  which  is  non-union,  had  several  among  its  mem¬ 
bers,  and  their  exquisite  tone  and  beautiful  phrasing  al¬ 
ways  particularly  enraged  me  because,  owing  to  the  union 
restrictions,  I  could  not  have  players  of  equal  merit. 

I  determined  therefore  to  throw  down  the  gantlet  to 
the  union  by  deliberately  going  to  France  to  engage  the 
five  best  artists  I  could  find  in  flute,  oboe,  clarinet,  bas- 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  213 


soon,  and  trumpet,  demonstrate  their  superior  excellence 
to  anything  we  could  obtain  in  New  York  at  that  time, 
and  through  the  pressure  of  public  opinion — and,  above 
all,  the  necessity  of  artistic  competition  with  the  Boston 
Symphony — force  the  union  to  accept  these  men  as 
members.  When  the  Frenchmen  arrived,  the  rage  among 
the  members  of  the  New  York  union  knew  no  bounds. 
I  had  a  summer  engagement  for  the  orchestra  on  one  of 
the  roof  gardens,  but  the  union  refused  to  let  them  play 
with  us  except  as  “ soloists, ”  and  I  determined  to  take  the 
matter  higher  up  to  the  annual  convention  of  the  National 
Federation  of  Musicians,  which  was  held  in  Detroit  in  the 
summer  of  1905. 

I  found  the  national  delegates  much  more  amenable 
to  reason  than  my  New  York  colleagues.  There  were 
more  real  Americans  among  them  and  many  of  them  lis¬ 
tened  to  my  pleadings  with  interest  and  sympathy.  The 
president  of  the  federation,  Joseph  N.  Weber,  is  a  man  of 
real  intellectual  ability;  and  while  he  and  I  have  had  some 
violent  quarrels  and  disagreements  during  these  many 
years,  and  while  I  have  sometimes  denounced  him  to  his 
face  as  a  fanatic  and  he  has  given  me  tit  for  tat,  I  must 
acknowledge  that  he  not  only  has  had  the  ability  to  build 
up  a  remarkable  organization  of  great  power,  but  has 
often  acted  with  great  fairness  in  disputes  that  have  come 
up  between  the  directors  of  the  New  York  Musical  Union 
and  myself. 

The  National  Federation  decided  in  my  favor  and  gave 
me  the  permission  to  incorporate  these  five  Frenchmen 
in  my  orchestra  and  to  enroll  them  as  members  of  the 
New  York  union,  but  as  I  had  “sinned  against  the  laws 
of  the  federation  in  bringing  them  over  from  a  foreign 
country,”  I  was  fined  one  thousand  dollars.  It  was, 


214 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


however,  intimated  to  me  privately  that  if  I  would  return 
to  the  next  convention  of  the  federation,  which  was  to  be 
held  in  Boston  the  following  summer,  I  would  in  all 
probability  receive  a  remission  of  the  greater  part  of  this 
fine.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  I  never  saw  any 
part  of  that  one  thousand  dollars  again. 

I  returned  to  New  York  jubilant  and  my  French 
players  proved  themselves  such  superior  artists  that,  to¬ 
gether  with  our  other  excellent  members,  many  of  whom 
had  been  with  me  for  years,  the  orchestra  quickly  took 
rank  among  the  best  in  the  country. 

The  leader  of  my  first  violins  was  Mr.  David  Mannes. 
I  had  discovered  him  a  few  years  before  at  one  of  the 
New  York  theatres,  where  he  was  a  member  of  the  little 
orchestra  and  where  I  heard  him  play  a  solo  charmingly 
between  the  first  and  second  acts.  The  beautiful  quality 
of  his  tone,  and  a  fine  sensitiveness  to  the  melos  of  the 
work  he  was  playing,  attracted  me  and  I  engaged  him 
for  the  last  stand  of  the  first  violins.  From  there  he  was 
quickly  promoted  until  he  occupied  the  position  at  the 
first  stand  of  concert  master.  He  married  my  sister  Clara, 
a  pianist  of  fine  accomplishment.  Their  sonata  recitals 
have  become  models  of  intimate  unity  in  chamber-music 
playing,  and  several  years  ago  they  founded  the  David 
Mannes  Music  School.  This  encroached  so  much  upon 
his  time  and  energy  as  to  compel  him  to  resign  his  posi¬ 
tion  in  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra,  which  he  had 
held  so  honorably  for  many  years. 

Each  lyear'  the  guarantee  fund  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  orchestra  was  increased  by  the  supporters  of  the  New 
York  Symphony  Society,  and  more  and  more  men  were 
engaged  on  regular  weekly  salaries.  At  last  my  dream  was 
realized,  and  New  York  had  an  orchestra  organized  on  the 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  215 


same  lines  as  the  Boston  and  Chicago  Orchestras,  de¬ 
voted  exclusively  to  symphonic  music  and  assembling 
daily  for  rehearsal. 

The  fund  at  this  time  reached  over  fifty  thousand 
dollars  a  year,  mainly  subscribed  by  the  directors  of  our 
organization.  Several  of  these  had  been  supporters  from 
my  father’s  time,  among  them  Isaac  N.  Seligman,  who, 
with  his  family,  had  been  interested  in  music  in  New 
York  for  many  years.  Others  had  come  into  the  organi¬ 
zation  when  I  became  its  conductor  and  had  remained 
loyal  supporters  and  close  friends  from  that  time  on. 
Among  them  were:  Richard  Welling,  a  director  since  1886, 
a  well-known  lawyer  and  reformer  in  municipal  politics, 
and  who  as  a  member  of  the  Naval  Reserves  promptly 
enlisted  as  an  ensign  when  we  entered  the  Great  War, 
although  he  was  then  well  over  fifty  years  of  age;  Miss 
Mary  R.  Callender  and  Miss  Caroline  de  Forest  who  had 
been  directors  since  1885.  Miss  Callender  further  sig¬ 
nalized  her  affection  for  the  orchestra  by  leaving  fifty 
thousand  dollars  to  the  pension  and  sick  fund  after  her 
death  in  1919.  The  complete  list  of  the  subscribers  to 
the  fund  at  the  time  was  as  follows: 


Mrs.  H.  A.  Alexander 
Mr.  C.  B.  Alexander 
Miss  Kora  F.  Barnes 
Mrs.  William  H.  Bliss 
Miss  Mary  R.  Callender 
Mr.  Robert  J.  Collier 
Mrs.  Paul  D.  Cravath 
Mr.  Paul  D.  Cravath 
Miss  Caroline  de  Forest 
Mr.  Charles  H.  Ditson 
Mrs.  S.  Edgar 
Miss  A.  C.  Flagler 


Mr.  Harry  Harkness  Flagler 
Mr.  Edward  S.  Flagler 
Mrs.  Frances  Heilman 
Mr.  Otto  H.  Kahn 
Mr.  A.  W.  Krech 
Mrs.  Daniel  Lamont 
Mr.  Albert  Lewisohn 
Mr.  Frank  A.  Munsey 
Mr.  Emerson  McMillin 
Mme.  Nordica 
Mr.  Stephen  S.  Palmer 
Mrs.  Trenor  L.  Park 


2l6 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Mr.  Amos  Pinchot 
Mrs.  Joseph  Pulitzer 
Mr.  Thomas  F.  Ryan 
Mr.  Charles  E.  Sampson 
Mr.  Samuel  S.  Sanford 
Mr.  R.  E.  Schirmer 
Mr.  Henry  Seligman 
Mrs.  Henry  Seligman 
Mr.  Isaac  N.  Seligman 


Mr.  Jefferson  Seligman 
Mrs.  Jesse  Seligman 
Mr.  Frank  H.  Simmons 
Miss  Clara  B.  Spence 
Mrs.  F.  T.  Van  Beuren 
Mr.  Richard  Welling 
Mrs.  J.  A.  Zimmerman 
Mr.  Paul  Warburg 


The  ideal  conditions  under  which  I  now  worked  gave 
me  the  opportunity  to  carry  out  several  artistic  plans 
which  I  had  had  for  a  long  time.  The  first  of  these  was  a 
Beethoven  cycle,  in  which  I  gave  not  only  all  the  nine 
symphonies  in  chronological  order,  but  other  composi¬ 
tions  of  Beethoven,  some  of  which  had  not  yet  appeared 
on  the  concert  programmes  of  New  York.  Accordingly, 
in  the  winter  of  1909,  I  prepared  six  programmes  com¬ 
posed  of  Beethoven’s  works,  and  at  the  last  concert  gave 
a  double  performance  of  his  “  Ninth  Symphony.”  This 
was  a  real  tour  de  jorce,  but  not  original  with  me.  During 
the  summer  of  1887,  which  I  had  spent  with  von  Biilow 
in  study  of  the  Beethoven  symphonies,  he  had  told  me  of 
having  given  such  a  double  performance  in  Berlin  and 
that  the  results  had  been  very  remarkable,  inasmuch  as 
at  the  second  hearing,  the  audience  had  been  able  the 
more  perfectly  to  grasp  many  of  the  intricacies  of  this 
“ Hamlet”  among  symphonic  dramas.  Our  double  per¬ 
formance  caused  a  good  deal  of  comment,  most  of  which 
was  very  favorable.  Between  the  two  performances  the 
orchestra  and  chorus  were  refreshed  with  hot  coffee  and 
sandwiches,  and  as  the  work  takes  about  an  hour  and  ten 
minutes  to  perform,  the  repetition,  together  with  a  half- 
hour  of  rest  between,  brought  the  final  tumultuous  out- 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  217 


burst  of  the  choral  “Ode  to  Joy”  to  eleven  o’clock.  Not¬ 
withstanding  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  the  audience  began 
a  great  demonstration  of  approval,  applauding  and  shout¬ 
ing  for  many  minutes;  but  while  I  and  my  performers 
took  some  of  this  as  ours  by  right,  I  have  always  felt  that 
the  audience  intended  a  good  part  of  it  as  directed  to¬ 
ward  themselves  for  having  so  nobly  endured  the  great 
strain  which  I  had  put  upon  them. 

This  was  the  first  Beethoven  Festival  ever  given  in 
New  York,  and  a  few  years  later  I  organized  a  Brahms 
Festival  on  similar  lines.  I  directed  his  four  symphonies, 
the  ingratiating  Zimbalist  playing  the  “Violin  Concerto,” 
Wilhelm  Backhaus  the  great  “  B-FIat  Piano  Concerto,” 
and  my  brother  with  the  chorus  of  the  Oratorio  Society 
conducting  a  very  beautiful  performance  of  the  “Re¬ 
quiem.” 

Such  festivals  devoted  exclusively  to  the  work  of  one 
composer  are  a  great  lesson  to  the  serious  music  lover, 
and  I  think  that  as  Beethoven  represents  almost  the 
alpha  and  certainly  the  omega  of  symphonic  music,  there 
should  be  repetitions  of  Beethoven  cycles  every  few 
years.  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand  why  it 
should  not  be  similarly  possible  to  give  Shakesperian 
cycles  in  spring,  in  which  all  of  our  best  actors  could  com¬ 
bine  to  make  up  ideal  casts.  We  should  certainly  make 
American  children  as  familiar  with  Shakespeare’s  great 
tragedies  as,  for  instance,  the  children  of  Germany,  to 
whom  Shakespeare  is  much  more  of  a  household  word 
than  he  is  to  those  of  this  country  or  England.  If  music 
can  find  Flaglers  and  Higginsons  to  endow  it  as  an  edu¬ 
cational  necessity,  why  cannot  similar  men  be  found  to 
do  the  same  for  the  drama  and  thus  help  to  lift  it  as  an 
educational  factor  from  its  painfully  weak  position  to 


2l8 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


which  the  necessities  of  making  it  a  paying  institution 
have  driven  it. 

During  all  these  years  my  relations  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Flagler  became  more  and  more  intimate.  I  had  never 
met  such  people  in  my  entire  life.  Their  devotion  to  and 
interest  in  the  orchestra  increased  constantly,  and  Mr. 
Flagler’s  contributions  to  the  fund  became  greater  and 
greater  as  the  needs  of  the  orchestra  increased.  But  his 
help  was  offered  with  a  shyness,  as  if  it  had  been  the  or¬ 
chestra  that  conferred  the  benefit  upon  him.  He  also 
took  over  a  work  which  I  had  always  detested  more  than 
anything  else,  and  that  is  the  collection  of  funds.  As  the 
expenses  of  the  orchestra  increased  with  the  years,  it 
became  necessary  to  collect  money  from  outside  sources 
beyond  the  large  sums  already  contributed  by  the  di¬ 
rectors  of  the  society.  With  constant  good  humor, 
patience,  and  infinite  tact  Mr.  Flagler,  whose  own  do¬ 
nations  to  the  fund  were  greater  in  proportion  to  his  in¬ 
come  than  those  of  many  others,  would  write  letters  or 
call  personally  on  well-to-do  musical  patrons  to  collect 
perhaps  a  few  hundred  dollars  toward  the  fund,  and  he 
would  be  inordinately  proud  of  his  success  as  a  financier 
and  collector. 

Finally  even  his  infinite  patience  wore  out  under  this 
yearly  strain  and  this  manifested  itself  in  a  very  remark¬ 
able  way. 

In  the  spring  of  1914  he  quietly  informed  me  that  he 
had  decided  to  assume  the  entire  financial  responsibility 
of  the  orchestra  himself  and  to  contribute  all  necessary 
funds  for  its  proper  maintenance.  This  amount  was  double 
what  would  have  been  considered  necessary  ten  years 
before,  but  salaries  of  orchestral  players  and  other  ex¬ 
penses  in  connection  with  the  giving  of  concerts  had  in- 


NEW  YORK  SYMPHONY  ORCHESTRA  219 


creased  enormously  and  it  was  Mr.  Flagler’s  desire  that, 
while  there  should  be  no  waste,  the  affairs  of  the  orchestra 
should  be  managed  in  such  liberal  fashion  that  the  ar¬ 
tistic  needs  could  first  be  considered  in  shaping  its  policy. 

This  magnificent  and  unique  act  naturally  created  a 
great  excitement  in  the  musical  circles  of  New  York,  and 
Mr.  Flagler  was  universally  acclaimed  as  its  foremost 
musical  citizen. 

I  have  a  characteristic  letter  of  his,  dated  August  31, 
1914,  in  which  he  says: 

Indeed  I  am  not  overmodest  about  my  gift  to  the  Symphony 
Society.  It  is  not  that,  but  what  I  am  doing  is  so  little  in  com¬ 
parison  with  what  the  real  makers  of  music,  creators  and  interpre¬ 
ters  like  yourself  do  for  the  betterment  of  the  world  through  their 
art,  that  it  doesn’t  deserve  to  be  thought  of.  I  am  proud  and  happy 
in  the  thought  that  I  may  be  the  means  of  helping  you  to  put  before 
the  world  your  ideas  in  regard  to  the  interpretations  of  the  masters 
and  to  bring  the  God-given  art  of  music  to  many  who  would  not 
otherwise  have  its  uplifting  and  consoling  power,  and  that  is  what  we 
are  doing  together.  You  shall  be  free  as  never  before  to  work  out 
your  own  ideas  unfettered  by  thoughts  of  the  financial  neces¬ 
sities.  .  .  . 

Since  then  the  society  has  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  its 
way  and,  freed  from  all  financial  worries,  has  contributed 
much  to  the  cause  of  music.  The  orchestra  plays  over  a 
hundred  symphony  concerts  during  the  winter,  in  New 
York  and  elsewhere.  These  include  a  series  of  Sunday- 
afternoon  concerts  at  iTolian  Hall,  Thursday-afternoon 
and  Friday-evening  concerts  at  Carnegie  Hall,  and  a 
series  of  young  people’s  concerts  and  another  of  chil¬ 
dren’s  concerts.  There  are  also  subscription  concerts  in 
Brooklyn,  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  Washington,  and 
Rochester,  and  several  tours  every  winter  to  Canada  and 


220 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


the  Middle  West.  During  the  war  Mr.  Flagler  often 
gave  the  services  of  the  orchestra  for  charities  connected 
with  the  war,  and  several  times  donated  the  gross  re¬ 
ceipts  of  our  regular  concerts  to  such  organizations  as  the 
American  Friends  of  Musicians  in  France,  in  which  he 
and  his  wife  became  very  much  interested.  But  perhaps 
the  climax  in  the  history  of  the  orchestra  was  reached  in 
its  great  European  tour  in  the  spring  of  1920.  To  this  I 
shall  devote  a  separate  chapter  following  one  on  my  ex¬ 
periences  in  France  during  the  Great  War. 


XV 


THE  GREAT  WAR 

When  America  finally  entered  the  Great  War  I  was, 
like  most  of  my  fellow  citizens,  anxious  to  do  something 
to  help,  and  therefore  shared  the  restlessness  and  discon¬ 
tent  which  most  men  of  maturer  years  felt  because  they 
were  not  “too  proud”  but  too  old  to  fight. 

A  number  of  music  lovers  had  formed  an  organization, 
“American  Friends  of  Musicians  in  France,”  the  object  of 
which  was  to  collect  money  with  which  to  help  the  fam¬ 
ilies  of  musicians  in  France  who  were  suffering  or  desti¬ 
tute  because  of  the  war.  Through  my  French  colleagues 
we  had  heard  of  many  such  cases — some  of  the  most  fa¬ 
mous  musicians  were  at  the  front,  in  the  trenches,  and  in 
the  hospitals,  doing  their  share  just  as  did  the  men  in  all 
the  other  professions  and  callings.  Several  organizations 
had  been  formed  in  France  to  help  toward  maintaining 
their  families,  but  much  remained  to  be  done,  and 
through  our  society,  which  aroused  immediate  response 
in  America,  we  were  raising  considerable  sums  and  ex¬ 
pected  to  continue  this  work  until  the  end  of  the  war. 

I  had  been  elected  president,  and  while  discussing  with 
our  committee  the  best  ways  and  means  of  helping  the 
older  French  musicians,  it  was  brought  out  that  many  of 
them  were  too  proud  to  accept  alms.  What  they  really 
wanted  was  opportunity  to  work  in  their  profession,  as 
the  constant  air  raids  and  bombardments  of  Paris  had 
almost  entirely  stopped  the  giving  of  lessons  and  con¬ 
certs.  During  our  discussion  Henri  Casadesus,  a  French 


221 


222 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


musician  who  was  then  on  a  concert  tour  in  America 
with  his  Society  of  Ancient  Instruments,  and  who  had 
given  us  much  valuable  information  regarding  conditions 
in  France,  suggested  that  an  orchestra  could  be  formed  of 
such  musicians  as  were  still  in  Paris,  which  might  be  used 
to  travel  around  the  country  to  the  various  camps  in 
which  our  huge  army  was  forming  and  drilling,  and  to  give 
our  soldiers  good  popular  music  during  their  hours  of  rest 
and  recreation. 

It  was  suggested  that  a  French  conductor  be  engaged 
to  lead  this  orchestra,  but  Casadesus  asked  whether  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  me  to  go  over  and  take  charge 
personally.  He  thought  that  the  French  Government 
would  look  on  this  idea  very  favorably,  and  through  the 
Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts  would  give  us  every  assistance 
possible  toward  the  forming  of  the  orchestra  and  its 
transportation  through  the  country.  Needless  to  say,  my 
heart  leaped  with  joy  at  this  suggestion.  One  step  led 
to  another,  and  Mr.  Harry  Harkness  Flagler  immediately 
and  with  characteristic  generosity  donated  a  check  large 
enough  to  pay  the  entire  expenses  and  salaries  of  a  French 
orchestra  of  fifty  men  for  six  weeks. 

The  plan  was  outlined  to  the  National  War  Work 
Council  of  the  Young  Men’s  Christian  Association,  who 
accepted  it  with  enthusiasm,  and  to  the  French  High 
Commission  in  Washington,  of  which  Mr.  Tardieu  was  at 
that  time  the  chief.  He  sent  one  of  his  staff,  the  Marquis 
de  Polignac,  to  New  York  to  discuss  and  arrange  details, 
and  immediately  cabled  to  Paris  to  obtain  for  me  the 
necessary  authority  to  enter  France  and  to  proceed  with 
the  plan.  The  acting  director  of  the  Ministere  des  Beaux 
Arts  was  at  that  time  M.  Alfred  Cortot,  the  distinguished 
pianist,  and  within  a  week  he  cabled  us  that  he  could 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


223 


place  at  my  disposal  the  Pasdeloup  Orchestra  of  fifty 
men  who  would  be  ready  on  my  arrival  to  travel  through¬ 
out  our  recreation  centres,  camps,  and  hospitals. 

As  no  civilian  who  was  not  in  government  employ  could 
sail  for  France  except  under  the  auspices  of  one  of  the 
welfare  organizations,  I  was  to  sail  as  a  war  worker  for 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  whose  entertainment  division  was  under 
the  direction  of  Mr.  Thomas  McLane,  an  earnest,  pa¬ 
triotic  citizen  of  New  York  who  gave  his  entire  time  en¬ 
thusiastically  to  this  arduous  work.  A  few  weeks  before 
sailing,  however,  the  war  situation  became  so  serious 
that  the  possibility  of  carrying  out  our  scheme  seemed 
very  doubtful,  but  Mr.  McLane  and  his  chief,  Mr. 
William  Sloane,  felt  strongly  that  I  should  go  over  any¬ 
how,  look  over  the  field,  and  make  myself  useful  in  one 
way  or  another. 

The  regulations  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  demanded  that  each 
one  of  their  workers  should  submit  an  indorsement  by 
three  well-known  American  citizens,  and  as  I  had  the 
honor  of  many  years’  acquaintance  with  Theodore  Roose¬ 
velt,  I  gave  his  name  as  one  who  might  be  willing  to  tes¬ 
tify  to  my  Americanism.  The  letter  which  he  wrote  is  so 
characteristic  that  I  am  vain  enough  to  reprint  it  here. 


Dear  Mr.  McLane:  _  Sagamore  HiH>  May  4th’  r9l8- 

Mr.  Walter  Damrosch  is  one  of  the  very  best  Americans  and  citi¬ 
zens  in  this  entire  land.  In  character,  ability,  loyalty,  and  fervid 
Americanism  he,  and  his,  stand  second  to  none  in  the  land.  I 
have  known  him  thirty  years;  I  vouch  for  him  as  if  he  were  my 

brother-  Faithfully 

C Signed )  Theodore  Roosevelt. 

The  assurance  of  a  safe-conduct  from  the  Ministere 
des  Etrangeres  was  a  rather  important  item  as  I  had  been 


224 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


born  in  Germany,  even  though  only  the  first  nine  years 
of  my  life  had  been  spent  there.  My  father  emigrated 
to  America  in  1871,  and  as  I  had  received  my  education 
here,  had  lived  in  America  ever  since,  and  had  married 
an  American,  I  had  never  felt  myself  anything  but  an 
American  and  of  the  most  enthusiastic  variety.  When  the 
Germans  invaded  Belgium,  when  they  sank  the  Lusitania , 
and  when  they  seemed  to  have  broken  all  laws  of  inter¬ 
national  relations,  I  expressed  myself,  both  personally 
and  in  newspaper  interviews,  so  strongly  that  long  before 
we  entered  the  war  several  Berlin  newspapers  violently 
took  me  to  task  and  honored  me  by  calling  me  a  renegade 
and  a  traitor  to  the  country  of  my  birth. 

There  was  an  understanding  between  our  country  and 
France  that  no  American  civilian  of  German  birth  should 
be  permitted  to  enter  France  except  by  special  permission 
of  either  M.  Clemenceau  or  M.  Pichon,  then  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs.  The  French  high  commissioner  cabled  to 
the  latter  and  in  most  cordial  terms  recommended  that  I 
be  permitted  to  enter  France,  both  because  of  my  office 
as  president  of  the  Society  of  American  Friends  of  Mu¬ 
sicians  in  France,  and  because  of  a  life-long  admiration 
for  French  music,  which  I  had  demonstrated  for  thirty- 
three  years  by  producing  in  our  country  nearly  every 
important  symphonic  work  that  French  composers  had 
written  before  and  within  that  time. 

M.  Pichon  promptly  cabled  the  necessary  vise  and 
with  all  proper  credentials  I  set  sail  on  June  15,  1918,  on 
the  French  steamship  La  Lorraine. 

The  ship’s  passengers  were  almost  entirely  soldiers  and 
war  workers.  There  were  two  hundred  and  fifty  Belgian 
soldiers  with  their  officers  returning  to  France  after  three 
years  spent  in  Russia,  and  who,  when  the  revolution  broke 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


225 


out,  had  after  incredible  hardships  reached  Vladivostok, 
sailing  from  there  to  California.  There  were  Polish  sol¬ 
diers  on  their  way  to  join  the  Foreign  Legion  of  the  French 
army  and  there  were  dozens  of  Red  Cross,  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
K.  of  C.,  and  S.  A.  workers.  There  were  not  more  than 
a  dozen  civilians,  among  them  my  friend,  Melville  Stone, 
director  of  the  Associated  Press,  and  M.  Sulzer,  the  Swiss 
minister  then  accredited  to  our  country.  It  was  strange 
to  be  on  a  transatlantic  steamer  without  any  idle  rich, 
tourists,  or  commercial  travellers;  and  the  large  guns 
mounted  fore  and  aft  with  a  gun  crew  watching,  ready 
day  and  night,  gave  one  a  grim  foretaste  of  the  war  raging 
on  the  other  side. 

On  the  first  day  out  Stone  told  me  that  M.  Sulzer 
would  like  to  meet  me.  I  expressed  my  pleasure  and 
laughingly  said:  “I  will  promise  not  to  ask  him  any 
questions  regarding  the  Swiss  citizenship  of  Doctor  Karl 
Muck.,,  Stone  must  have  repeated  this  to  Sulzer,  for 
immediately  after  our  introduction  he  said:  “l  want  to 
tell  you  that  Doctor  Muck  had  no  more  claim  to  Swiss 
citizenship  than  you  have.  The  facts  are  as  follows: 
After  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  Muck’s  father — a  Ba¬ 
varian  living  in  Munich — was  afraid  that  Bavaria  would 
become  completely  Prussianized,  and,  as  he  had  no  liking 
for  that  country,  he  preferred  to  emigrate  to  Switzerland, 
where  he  acquired  citizenship  which  at  that  time  was  very 
easy,  as  Switzerland  was  glad  to  receive  the  intelligentsia 
of  other  countries.  His  son  Karl  left  Switzerland  as  a 
boy  to  be  educated  in  Germany,  and  never  returned. 
He  went  to  a  German  university,  studied  music,  became 
an  orchestral  conductor,  and  as  such  officiated  in  various 
German  opera-houses,  until  he  became  conductor  and 
Generalmusikdirektor  at  the  Royal  Opera  in  Berlin. 


226 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


There  he  remained  for  many  years  and  when  the  war 
broke  out  offered  his  services  to  the  German  Ministry  of 
War  in  a  clerical  capacity.  The  Swiss  Government  does 
not  recognize  him  as  a  citizen  and  refuses  him  the  pro¬ 
tection  which  such  citizenship  would  afford  him.” 

Our  journey  was  uneventful.  We  saw  no  submarines 
and,  what  was  still  more  important,  no  submarines  saw 
us.  When  we  reached  the  “ danger  zone”  some  hundred 
miles  from  the  coast  of  France,  I  was  solemnly  appointed 
a  committee  of  one  to  inform  M.  Sulzer  that  as  he  was 
the  Swiss  minister  and  as  such  the  representative  of 
German  interests  in  the  United  States  during  the  war,  we 
intended  to  bind  him  to  the  foremast  and  play  a  search¬ 
light  on  him  and  on  a  large  Swiss  flag  hanging  over  his 
head,  during  the  two  or  three  nights  before  we  dropped  an¬ 
chor  in  the  Gironde.  He  smilingly  expressed  himself  as  so 
willing  to  act  in  this  capacity  as  our  guardian  angel,  that  we 
refrained  and  trusted  to  luck,  which  indeed  never  failed  us. 

We  dropped  anchor  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gironde  to  take 
on  the  usual  officials,  among  them  the  secret-service  men 
who  were  to  look  over  the  passengers  while  we  waited  the 
turn  of  the  tide  before  proceeding  up-stream  to  Bordeaux. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sunlit  evening,  and  as  I  was  standing 
at  the  rail  watching  the  tide,  which  ran  out  to  sea  like  a 
mill-race,  suddenly  there  was  a  splash  and  we  saw  one 
of  the  Belgian  soldiers  lying  on  the  water,  his  face  down¬ 
ward  and  his  arms  and  legs  outstretched  and  motionless. 
Fie  was  being  carried  out  to  sea  with  incredible  speed  by 
the  tide,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  was  trying  to  commit 
suicide,  as  he  made  no  effort  to  struggle.  The  sailors  were 
all  busy  elsewhere  getting  out  the  mail-bags  and  trunks, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  nothing  seemed  to  be  done.  Sud¬ 
denly  there  was  another  splash  as,  from  the  deck  above, 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


227 


a  man  dove  after  the  Belgian.  It  was  Lieutenant  Shirk, 
an  aviator  in  our  marines,  who  had  not  even  taken  the 
time  to  throw  off  his  coat  or  leather  puttees.  A  life-saving 
belt  had  been  thrown  just  previously  and  floated  with  the 
tide  several  yards  ahead  of  the  Belgian  soldier,  but  both 
were  carried  along  so  swiftly  that  it  was  some  time  before 
Lieutenant  Shirk  could  reach  him.  As  he  approached, 
the  Belgian  promptly  kicked  at  him,  and  it  took  several 
moments  before  he  was  overpowered  and  dragged  toward 
the  life-belt.  In  the  meantime  a  boat  had  been  lowered, 
but  so  swift  is  the  tide  in  these  waters  that  when  the  boat 
reached  the  two  men,  they  seemed  like  two  small  black 
spots  in  the  distance.  The  excitement  and  enthusiasm 
when  they  were  brought  back  to  the  ship  may  easily  be 
imagined. 

Lieutenant  Shirk  proved  to  be  a  well-to-do  young  busi¬ 
ness  man  from  Indianapolis,  who  when  the  war  broke  out 
had  immediately  enlisted,  leaving  a  wife  and  children 
and  large  important  business  interests  to  give  himself 
whole-heartedly  to  the  service  of  his  country. 

If  you  “tell  this  story  to  the  marines”  they  will  refuse 
to  acknowledge  that  it  is  anything  extraordinary,  and  they 
will  also  tell  you  that  that  is  just  a  way  they  have  of 
dealing  with  any  emergency  on  land  or  sea. 

The  sad  part  of  this  heroic  rescue  is  that  a  few  days 
afterward,  meeting  one  of  the  Belgian  officers  in  Paris,  he 
told  me  that  the  soldier,  soon  after  landing,  had  succeeded 
in  his  effort  at  self-destruction,  and  had  shot  himself  in  a 
fit  of  despondency.  He  had  been  away  from  Belgium  for 
four  years,  and  during  all  that  time  had  had  no  news  of 
his  wife  or  children;  his  little  farm  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  Germans,  and  there  was  neither  hope  nor  desire  to 
live  left  in  him. 


228 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


We  all  had  to  assemble  in  the  saloon  of  the  ship  to 
present  our  passports,  and  when  it  came  to  my  turn  I  was 
politely  told  to  go  to  my  cabin  with  two  secret-service 
men,  that  they  might  question  me  further  regarding  my 
mission.  One  of  these  men  was  silent,  but  the  other  a 
very  voluble,  polite  Frenchman.  But  even  the  vise  by 
the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  and  the  French  High  Com¬ 
mission  did  not  seem  quite  to  satisfy  him.  The  fact  that 
I  had  been  born  in  Germany  evidently  impressed  him  un¬ 
favorably.  He  asked  me  finally:  “Do  you  intend  to  take 
any  money  out  of  France?”  “On  the  contrary,”  I  re¬ 
plied,  “here  is  a  letter  of  credit,  every  cent  of  which  is  to 
be  used  on  French  orchestra  musicians.”  In  corrobora¬ 
tion  I  showed  him  the  cable  from  the  Ministere  des  Beaux 
Arts  offering  me  the  use  of  the  Pasdeloup  Orchestra,  the 
conductor  of  which  was  M.  Rhene  Baton.  The  face  of 
my  secret-service  man  suddenly  became  wreathed  in 
smiles.  “Ah!”  he  said,  “M.  Baton!  Why,  before  the 
war  I  used  to  play  third  horn  in  his  orchestra  in  Bor¬ 
deaux.  Everything  is  all  right.”  With  a  bow  he  handed 
me  back  my  passport,  and  at  this  point  his  silent  com¬ 
panion  suddenly  gave  me  a  most  genial  wink,  the  nation¬ 
ality  of  which  could  not  be  mistaken.  I  said:  “You  are 
American.”  “Sure!”  he  answered,  and  thus  I  was  en¬ 
abled  to  land  at  last  in  France  with  colors  flying. 

The  next  morning  saw  me  in  Paris  at  the  little  hotel 
“France  et  ChoiseuI,”  to  which  I  had  always  gone  on  my 
visits  to  Paris  during  twenty-five  years  preceding.  I 
found  the  same  courteous,  smiling  directeur,  M.  Mantel, 
to  receive  me.  Even  the  old  canary-bird,  hanging  in  the 
courtyard,  was  still  living,  but  either  corpulence  or  old 
age  had  stopped  his  musical  demonstrations. 

It  would  take  a  man  of  much  greater  eloquence  than  I 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


229 


can  claim,  to  give  an  adequate  picture  of  Paris  at  that 
time.  It  seemed  to  me  more  beautiful  and  more  noble 
than  I  had  ever  seen  it  during  my  many  visits  in  times  of 
peace.  The  streets  were  almost  empty,  there  were  no 
tourists,  no  pleasure-seekers,  no  idlers,  and  therefore 
that  part  of  Parisian  life  which  usually  stands  out  so 
prominently  and  which,  alas,  is  generally  the  only  part 
that  the  average  visitor  sees,  was  entirely  absent.  One 
saw  only  the  French  people  going  about  their  daily  tasks 
and  the  soldiers  of  France  and  her  allies.  The  Champs- 
Elysees,  the  Tuileries,  and,  above  all,  the  Jardin  de 
Luxembourg  seemed  more  charming  than  ever,  but  the 
tragic  note  was  that  the  lovely  children  who  in  former 
times  crowded  these  gardens  were  all  gone.  Constant  air 
raids  and  the  frequent  bombardments  by  the  “Big 
Bertha”  had  driven  them  away.  It  was  said  that  a 
million  and  a  half  people  had  left  Paris,  and  that,  owing 
to  the  nearness  of  the  German  armies,  the  entire  evacu¬ 
ation  of  the  civilian  population  was  imminent.  Rumors 
had  it,  furthermore,  that  all  the  banks  had  sent  their  se¬ 
curities  to  Orleans  and  that  the  embassies  and  various 
relief  organizations  were  ready  to  leave  Paris  at  a  few 
hours’  notice.  There  was  not  the  least  sign  of  panic,  but 
an  indescribable  sadness  brooded  over  the  city. 

During  the  long  twilight,  which  is  the  most  beautiful 
time  to  see  Paris,  when  the  sky  and  the  clouds  seem  to 
hover  most  intimately  and  caressingly  over  its  wonderful 
vistas,  I  used  to  take  long  walks  along  the  banks  of  the 
Seine.  Even  the  complete  darkness  at  night,  the  absence 
of  all  electric  lights  or  signs,  with  only  an  occasional  half- 
hidden  blue  lamp  here  and  there,  made  the  city  more 
picturesque  and  wonderful.  It  was  almost  as  if  the  cen¬ 
turies  of  civilization  and  modern  inventions  had  been 


230 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


swept  away  and  we  were  back  again  in  the  time  of  the 
Grand  Monarque,  when  Paris  was  only  dimly  lighted  by 
faintly  flickering  oil  lamps. 

Of  course,  I  soon  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  noc¬ 
turnal  air  raids,  and  when  the  sirens  placed  at  various 
high  buildings  of  the  city  sounded  their  horrible  warning 
that  the  German  Gothas  were  approaching,  every  inhabi¬ 
tant  was  supposed  to  seek  shelter  in  the  cellars.  I  did 
this  dutifully  for  two  or  three  nights,  but  as  it  meant 
leaving  one’s  bed  at  about  11.30  or  12  and  returning  at 
about  1.30  or  2  a.  m.,  I  gradually  realized  that  my  own 
pet  cowardice  was  more  the  fear  of  not  getting  enough 
sleep,  as  I  was  completely  knocked  out  during  the  day¬ 
time  by  the  lack  of  it.  After  weighing  the  alternatives 
carefully  I  decided  to  take  the  small  risk  of  remaining  in 
my  bed  and  getting  a  good  night’s  rest  in  consequence; 
and  having  solved  this  question  to  my  complete  satis¬ 
faction,  I  used  to  wake  up  on  hearing  the  warning  of  the 
sirens,  stretch  myself  comfortably,  and  immediately  go 
to  sleep  again. 

The  gatherings  in  the  abri  of  our  hotel  were,  however, 
quite  amusing.  The  guests  used  to  assemble  in  the  wine- 
cellar,  which  was  protected  by  walls  several  feet  thick, 
and  in  which  we  could  further  fortify  ourselves  by  sam¬ 
pling  a  bottle  or  two  of  the  excellent  claret  and  burgundy 
which  it  contained.  If  one  of  our  little  number  was  an 
army  officer  we  would  make  him  tell  us  his  experiences 
at  the  front,  and  listen  with  awe  and  eager  interest  until 
the  bugles  of  the  fire  department  outside  sounded  the 
“all-clear”  signal.  Then  the  old  portier,  whom  we  'used 
to  call  “Papa  Joffre,”  would  come  down  and,  with  the 
sweetest  smile  on  his  dear  old  face,  assure  us  that  all  was 
safe  and  we  could  creep  back  again  to  our  beds. 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


231 


In  the  meantime  I  began  to  investigate  the  conditions 
under  which  to  carry  out  our  plan  of  giving  orchestral 
concerts  for  our  soldiers  at  their  rest  camps  and  in  the 
hospitals,  and  soon  discovered  that  the  recent  develop¬ 
ments  at  the  front  would  make  it  exceedingly  difficult, 
if  not  impossible.  Paris  was  in  a  state  of  great  depres¬ 
sion.  The  enemy  were  threatening  the  city,  our  rest 
camps  were  empty,  and  our  soldiers  were  being  drilled 
furiously  in  order  to  put  them  as  soon  as  possible  either 
in  the  line  or  behind  the  line  as  reserves.  Every  avail¬ 
able  inch  of  space  on  the  railroads  had  to  be  used  for 
military  purposes,  for  the  transportation  of  men  and  ma¬ 
terial,  and  to  have  intruded  an  orchestra  of  fifty  men 
with  cumbersome  luggage,  musical  instruments,  etc., 
would  have  been  a  nuisance  instead  of  a  service. 

The  French  Government,  through  its  various  depart¬ 
ments  with  which  I  came  into  contact,  especially  the 
Ministry  of  Fine  Arts  and  the  French  High  Commission, 
received  me  with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  kindness.  M. 
Cortot,  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  had  taken  steps  to  procure  an 
orchestra  for  me  and  I  was  already  getting  the  full  bene¬ 
fit  of  the  friendliness  for  everything  American  which, 
after  the  first  entry  of  our  troops  into  the  fighting-line  at 
Seicheprey,  Belleau  Wood,  and  Chateau-Thierry  devel¬ 
oped  into  an  enthusiasm,  the  like  of  which  cannot  be 
imagined.  I  saw  the  change  from  deepest  despondency 
to  greatest  optimism  come  over  the  city  like  a  wave,  and 
especially  after  the  heroic  stand  of  our  men  at  Chateau- 
Thierry  there  was  nothing  which  an  American  could 
possibly  want  that  a  Frenchman  was  not  willing  to  give 
to  him  with  both  hands. 

For  the  morning  of  the  Fourth  of  July  a  Franco-Amer- 
ican  demonstration  had  been  arranged  which  was  to  cul- 


232 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


minate  in  a  parade  of  French  and  American  troops  from 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe  down  the  Champs  Elysees  to  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  I  was  naturally  among  the  crowds 
of  eager  spectators  who  lined  the  avenue  to  greet  our 
troops,  which  included  a  company  of  our  marines  who 
had  fought  at  the  front  but  a  few  days  before.  This  was 
literally  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  a  crowd  of  people 
in  Paris,  and  it  marked  in  significant  fashion  the  change 
from  the  gloom  that  had  hovered  over  the  city  when  I 
first  arrived. 

Paris  had  been  decorated  as  only  the  French  know  how, 
and  the  noble  vistas  of  the  city  looked  their  best  under  a 
glorious  sky  of  blue  slightly  flecked  with  white  clouds. 
In  the  waiting  crowd  there  were  no  young  men,  not  even 
middle-aged,  for  all  these  had  been  at  the  front  for  four 
years,  but  there  were  old  men,  boys,  and  women  of  all 
ages  down  to  a  charming  little  girl  of  twelve,  evidently  of 
the  poorer  class,  who  was  standing  by  my  side  on  tip¬ 
toe  with  excitement.  She  could  speak  a  few  words  of 
English  and  every  now  and  then,  with  the  sweetest  and 
shyest  glance  at  me,  she  would  demonstrate  her  knowl¬ 
edge  of  our  tongue,  and  then  supplement  it  with  more 
voluble  French,  as  she  pointed  out  to  me  the  various  won¬ 
ders  of  the  day. 

Overhead  some  of  the  most  expert  of  the  French  air¬ 
men  were  flying  backward  and  forward,  looping  the  loop, 
dipping  the  dip,  and  executing  marvellous  manoeuvres 
as  they  swooped  down,  sometimes  almost  brushing  the 
trees  on  either  side  of  the  magnificent  avenue,  all  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  crowds  awaiting  the  coming  of  our 
soldiers.  As  the  mounted  police  of  Paris,  a  splendid  body 
of  men,  came  down  the  avenue,  the  excitement  became 
intense,  and  when  our  khaki-clad  boys  swept  into  view 


LIEUTENANT  WALKER  BLAINE  BEALE 
Killed  in  the  St.  Mihiel  drive,  September  18,  1918 


, 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


233 


the  enthusiasm  exceeded  all  bounds.  Young  girls,  with 
their  arms  literally  banked  with  flowers,  ran  across  the 
empty  spaces  cleared  by  the  police,  and  began  to  distribute 
them  among  our  soldiers  who,  looking  straight  ahead, 
awkwardly  grabbed  the  flowers,  stuck  them  into  the  tunics, 
or  held  them  in  the  hand  not  occupied  with  the  rifle,  all 
the  time  keeping  their  alignment  with  the  most  rigid 
discipline,  just  as  if  they  were  ignorant  of  the  sweetest 
tribute  that  one  nation  could  offer  another.  The  whole 
scene  was  so  indescribably  touching  that  every  one  in  the 
crowd,  including  myself,  stood  there  with  the  tears  roll¬ 
ing  down  his  cheeks. 

On  my  other  side  stood  an  American  bandmaster  who 
recognized  me,  and  while  we  were  waiting  for  the  parade 
he  implored  me  to  do  something  for  the  bandsmen  in  the 
American  army  in  France.  He  told  me  that  he  had  drilled 
his  little  band  of  twenty-eight  men  for  six  months  before 
being  sent  overseas,  that  they  had  continued  to  work 
faithfully  during  their  stay  in  France,  and  that  they  had 
achieved  a  good  standard  of  efficiency.  But,  according  to 
old  American  army  custom,  they  had  been  sent  into  the 
firing-line  at  Seicheprey  as  stretcher-bearers,  and  in  con¬ 
sequence  so  many  had  been  either  killed,  wounded,  or 
shell-shocked  that  his  band  had  become  completely  dis¬ 
organized.  His  regiment  was  in  consequence  without 
music,  and  he  had  been  detached  and  sent  to  Paris  as 
general  purchasing  agent  for  musical  instruments.  He 
said:  “It  takes  at  least  six  months  to  train  a  good  bands¬ 
man,  while  a  stretcher-bearer  can  be  trained  in  as  many 
hours.  We  serve  a  real  purpose,  while  the  men  are  in 
camp,  in  taking  their  minds  away  from  the  drudgery  and 
monotony  of  army  life.  Our  music  cheers  them;  a  silent 
camp  is  almost  unendurable.  Can’t  you  persuade  General 


234 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Pershing  to  change  this  custom,  just  as  the  British  and 
other  nations  have  done?”  I  told  him  that  I  sympa¬ 
thized  with  his  views,  that  it  seemed  to  me  wrong  to  use 
the  band  for  any  other  purpose  than  music,  except  in  case 
of  absolute  military  necessity,  but  that  I  was  without  any 
official  connection  with  the  army  and  so  did  not  think 
that  I  could  be  of  much  service  to  him. 

When  the  parade  was  ended  and  the  crowds  dispersed, 
the  little  French  girl  on  my  right  said  “ Good-by”  to  me 
in  English,  ever  so  prettily,  and  then  very  shyly  pressed 
into  my  hand  as  a  parting  token  a  tiny  little  American 
flag  that  she  herself  had  painted  on  a  bit  of  cotton,  the 
stars  and  stripes  on  one  side  and  the  French  tricolor  on 
the  other.  Needless  to  say  I  still  possess  this  charming 
symbol  as  a  porte-bonheur. 

I  had  arranged  to  conduct  two  concerts  in  Paris,  one  on 
July  13  at  the  Theatre  des  Champs-Elysees,  exclusively 
for  our  soldiers  and  Red  Cross  nurses  stationed  in  and  near 
Paris,  and  the  other  on  the  following  afternoon,  Sunday, 
July  14  (the  Fete  Nationale  of  the  French),  the  entire 
proceeds  of  which  were  to  be  given  to  the  Croix  Rouge 
Frangaise.  For  the  latter  concert  the  French  Government 
immediately  offered  their  historic  Salle  du  Conservatoire,  a 
courtesy  that  had  never  been  extended  to  a  foreign  con¬ 
ductor  before.  This  was  to  be  a  symphonic  concert,  en¬ 
tirely  devoted  in  honor  of  the  day  to  works  of  the  great 
French  composers,  but  at  the  first  rehearsal  it  looked  as  if 
the  concert  would  have  to  be  cancelled  because  it  seemed 
impossible  to  collect  a  first-class  orchestra  of  eighty  men. 
The  four  years  of  war  had  called  almost  every  male 
-  citizen  of  France  into  military  service,  and  the  recent 
evacuation  of  Paris  had  drawn  with  it  many  of  the  mu¬ 
sicians  who  had  until  then  remained  in  the  city.  At  my 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


235 


first  rehearsal  only  forty-three  men  appeared,  and  these 
were  divided  in  most  abnormal  fashion.  There  were  five 
first  violins,  ten  seconds,  two  violas,  one  violoncello,  and 
three  double  basses.  There  was  no  oboe  or  English  horn; 
only  two  French  horns,  one  trumpet,  etc.  Of  the  forty- 
three  men  assembled  seven  were  members  of  the  Garde 
Republicaine ,  the  famous  Paris  military  band,  but  which 
unfortunately  for  me  had  to  attend  an  official  celebration 
of  the  Fete  Nationale  at  the  Trocadero  on  the  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  President  of  the  republic  was  to  be  pres¬ 
ent  with  various  other  dignitaries  and  a  chorus  of  three 
thousand  school  children. 

I  was  in  despair,  and  finally  made  an  appeal  to  the  or¬ 
chestra  in  very  voluble  but  ungrammatical  French,  the 
gist  of  which  was  that  America  had  gladly  sent  one  mil¬ 
lion  soldiers  to  France  and  was  getting  ready  to  send  two 
millions  more;  all  I  asked  in  return  was  an  orchestra  of 
eighty  men!  Could  they  not  help  me  to  supplement 
their  thin  ranks  with  a  sufficient  number  of  trained  mu¬ 
sicians  to  complete  the  orchestra?  My  little  speech  was 
received  with  an  agitated  enthusiasm.  They  immediately 
began  to  gather  in  excited  groups  and  swore  to  me  that  the 
orchestra  could  and  would  be  obtained.  One  assured  me 
of  a  fine  oboe,  another  of  a  trumpeter,  another  of  a  first 
violin,  and  so  on.  M.  Cortot  also  got  busy.  He  sent  for 
Captain  Ballay,  the  conductor  of  the  Garde  Republicaine, 
and  represented  to  him  in  what  seemed  to  me  an  eloquent 
oration  worthy  of  the  Chambre  des  Deputes,  that  after 
Seicheprey  and  Chateau-Thierry  France  could  not  and 
would  not  refuse  an  American  anything  he  asked  for. 
Captain  Baflay  enthusiastically  agreed,  and  promised  to 
send  the  seven  members  of  his  band  whom  I  needed  for 
my  concert — in  the  swiftest  taxi-cabs  he  could  procure — 


236 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


from  the  Trocadero,  where  the  governmental  celebration 
was  to  begin  at  three  o’clock,  immediately  after  they  had 
played  his  opening  overture,  to  the  Salle  du  Conservatoire 
at  which  my  concert  was  scheduled  for  four.  He  thought 
that  the  President  of  the  republic  was  not  musical  enough 
to  notice  the  absence  of  these  seven  men,  and  that  he 
would  manage  to  get  along  without  them  for  the  rest  of 
his  programme. 

At  the  same  time,  noted  French  soloists  who  ordina¬ 
rily  did  not  play  in  orchestras,  offered  their  services — 
Captain  PoIIain,  famous  violoncellist  from  Nancy  and 
M.  Hewitt  (whose  great-grandfather  had  been  an  Amer¬ 
ican  but  whose  family  had  lived  in  France  for  three  gen¬ 
erations),  solo  violinist  of  the  Instruments  Anciens. 
And  at  the  second  rehearsal,  whom  should  I  see,  but  dear 
old  Longy,  for  thirty  years  celebrated  oboe  player  of  the 
Boston  Symphony,  who  said  to  me  most  touchingly:  “I 
see  you  have  no  second  oboe.  I  have  no  instrument  in 
France  as  I  left  mine  in  Boston,  but  I  will  borrow  one 
and  play  for  you  if  you  need  me.” 

At  my  second  rehearsal  an  excellent  orchestra  of 
seventy-seven  men  assembled,  and  at  the  third  the  or¬ 
chestra  was  complete,  including  many  French  soldiers  in 
uniform,  four  or  five  distinguished  virtuosi  who  played 
in  orchestra  only  for  this  occasion,  and  even  one  of  my 
own  first  violinists  from  the  New  York  Symphony  Or¬ 
chestra,  Reber  Johnson,  who,  having  been  rejected  for  the 
army  as  physically  not  fit,  had  immediately  volunteered 
in  the  American  Red  Cross,  and  turned  up  at  the  re¬ 
hearsal  in  his  uniform  in  the  most  natural  way,  as  if  this 
had  been  one  of  the  regular  daily  rehearsals  of  the  New 
York  Symphony. 

My  first  trumpeter  was  a  young  French  soldier  who 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


237 


had  played  clarinet  before  the  war.  His  arm  had  been 
shot  off  only  a  year  before,  and  as  soon  as  he  left  the  hos¬ 
pital  he  studied  the  trumpet  and  with  his  one  arm  not 
only  held  but  fingered  it  with  remarkable  facility. 

I  do  not  think  that  in  all  my  long  career  I  have  ever 
conducted  concerts  or  rehearsals  in  which  both  conductor 
and  players  were  enveloped  in  such  an  atmosphere  of 
emotional  excitement.  Our  young,  handsome  boys  in 
khaki  seemed  like  demigods  to  these  tired  and  worn  peo¬ 
ple  who  had  fought  with  such  incredible  tenacity  for  four 
terrible  years.  The  members  of  the  orchestra  received 
every  criticism  which  I  made  during  the  rehearsals  with 
a  quick  nod  or  an  engaging  smile,  and  every  now  and  then 
some  remark  of  mine  regarding  the  proper  interpretation 
would  be  followed  by  a  murmur  of  approval,  which  would 
spread  through  the  orchestra  and  sometimes  even  vent 
itself  in  applause.  I  hope  that  my  criticisms,  as  well  as 
my  interpretations,  pleased  them,  but  I  know  that  even 
if  they  had  not,  it  would  have  made  no  difference.  I  was 
an  American  and  that  was  enough. 

At  the  Saturday-night  concert,  which  was  more  pop¬ 
ular  in  character,  I  gave  our  American  soldier  audience 
Victor  Herbert’s  clever  medley  on  American  airs,  and 
those  Frenchmen  played  as  if  they  had  known  them  all 
their  lives.  The  huge  audience  in  khaki  fairly  seethed 
with  patriotic  excitement,  which  of  course  found  its  cli¬ 
max  when  we  turned  into  “ Dixie.”  All  jumped  to  their 
feet  and  cheered  and  cheered,  so  that  for  ten  bars  or  so 
literally  nothing  of  the  music  could  be  heard,  and  only 
by  the  waving  of  my  stick  and  the  motions  of  the  players 
could  one  tell  that  the  music  was  going  on. 

The  following  afternoon  the  programme  was  one  of  real 
symphonic  proportions,  and  included  Saint-Saens’s  great 


238 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


“Symphony  No.  3”  for  orchestra,  organ,  and  piano,  De¬ 
bussy’s  “L’Apres-midi  d’un  Faune,”  and  the  “Symphonic 
Variations  ”  for  piano  with  orchestra,  by  Cesar  Franck. 

The  organ  part  in  the  symphony  was  played  by  Mile. 
Nadia  Boulanger,  without  doubt  the  greatest  woman  mu¬ 
sician  I  have  ever  known,  and  the  Franck  “Variations” 
were  superbly  interpreted  by  Alfred  Cortot.  M.  Casa- 
desus  played  an  exquisite  concerto  for  the  viola  d’amour 
by  Laurenziti. 

The  little  Salle  du  Conservatoire ,  its  quaint  architecture 
dating  from  the  time  of  Louis  XVI,  with  its  tiny  boxes 
and  balconies,  was  jammed  to  the  doors — the  janitor  told 
me  that  it  was  the  largest  audience  he  had  ever  seen 
there.  Every  available  space  was  filled  twice  over  and 
the  walls  literally  bulged  outward.  The  audience  was  a 
very  interesting  one.  The  French  Government,  with  its 
usual  politeness,  had  sent  official  representatives  from  the 
Ministere  des  Etrangeres ,  the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts , 
and  the  French  High  Commission — many  of  them  in  uni¬ 
form.  There  were  also  many  French  musicians  of  dis¬ 
tinction,  among  them  dear  Maitre  Charles  Widor,  the 
Secretaire  Perpetuel  de  VInstitut  de  France,  and,  of  course, 
many  French,  British,  and  American  soldiers.  A  New 
York  fire  commissioner  would  have  gasped  at  the  way  in 
which  all  precautions  were  disregarded,  and  the  excite¬ 
ment  in  the  audience,  when  at  the  end  of  the  concert  we 
played  the  “Marseillaise”  and  the  “Star-Spangled  Ban¬ 
ner,”  can  be  imagined. 

To  add  to  my  pleasure  my  daughter  Alice,  who  was 
doing  war  work  away  down  in  Brest,  had  received  per¬ 
mission  to  come  up  to  Paris  for  the  great  occasion.  My 
old  friend,  Paul  Cravath,  vice-president  of  the  New  York 
Symphony  Society,  who  was  at  that  time  at  the  head  of 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


239 


our  Finance  Commission  in  London,  had  flown  over  in 
an  English  airplane,  and  smiled  upon  me  from  a  centre 
box  in  all  his  splendor  of  six  feet  four  as  I  turned  around  to 
make  my  bow  to  the  cheering  audience. 

I  think  we  gave  them  an  exceedingly  good  concert. 
The  orchestra  were  delightful  in  their  keen  desire  to  carry 
out  my  intentions;  but  I  think  if  we  had  played  less  well 
the  enthusiasm  would  have  been  just  as  great,  for  while 
we  were  playing,  the  names  of  Seicheprey  and  Chateau- 
Thierry  were  vibrating  in  the  hearts  of  all  listeners,  and 
their  enthusiasm  was  poured  out  upon  me  as  if  I,  single- 
handed,  demonstrated  the  valor  of  our  American  troops. 

At  the  end  of  the  concert,  the  president  of  the  Musical 
Orchestral  Union  of  Paris  presented  me  with  a  large 
bouquet  of  roses  tied  with  the  American  colors,  and  in  a 
very  eloquent  speech  voiced  the  gratitude  of  the  French 
musicians  for  the  assistance  which  had  been  given  them 
by  our  Society  of  American  Friends  of  Musicians  in 
France.  I  was  able  to  supplement  my  words  of  thanks 
with  a  further  substantial  check,  which  had  been  sent  by 
Mr.  Flagler  and  which  was  to  be  devoted  to  the  families 
of  orchestral  musicians  serving  at  the  front. 

The  week  had  been  fully  occupied  with  the  preparations 
for  these  two  concerts,  but  notwithstanding  the  atten¬ 
dant  excitements  and  elations  I  had  periods  of  great 
despondency.  The  possibility  of  continuing  my  mission 
in  France  seemed  less  and  less  capable  of  fulfilment, 
partly  owing  to  the  tense  military  situation  and  partly 
because  I  did  not  seem  to  get  the  proper  assistance  from 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Mr.  McLane  and  Mr.  Sloane,  at  the 
head  of  affairs  in  New  York,  had  given  me  their  enthusi¬ 
astic  support,  and  I  had  sailed  at  their  urgent  request. 
They  had  cabled  and  written  full  instructions  to  the 


240 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


“Y”  in  France,  and  on  my  arrival  Mr.  Ernest  Carter, 
the  head  worker,  whom  I  liked  exceedingly,  had  promised 
me  the  fullest  co-operation.  But  he  was  evidently 
harassed  and  overworked  and  did  not  get  the  efficient 
help  which  he  should  have  had  in  the  running  of  so  large 
an  organization  in  war  time.  Many  of  the  heads  of  de¬ 
partments  were  ex-clergymen  or  church  and  Sunday- 
school  workers  who  were  evidently  inexperienced  in  the 
management  of  practical  affairs.  I  am  told  that  later  on 
this  condition  was  much  improved  and  that  the  men  who 
were  subsequently  sent  out  from  America  were  chosen 
more  for  their  business  ability,  but  at  the  time  I  men¬ 
tion,  the  confusion  at  the  headquarters  in  the  Rue  d’Ages- 
seau  was  often  great  and  there  seemed  to  be  insufficient 
co-operation  between  the  different  departments.  In  or¬ 
der  to  be  able  to  travel  around  France  unmolested  I  had 
to  have  a  carte  rouge ,  and  this  card  it  seemed  impossible 
to  obtain  for  me,  notwithstanding  all  my  proper  and 
complete  credentials  as  an  American,  as  a  musician  well 
known  all  over  our  country,  and,  above  all,  as  a  persona 
grata  with  the  French  Government. 

A  few  days  before  my  first  concert  I  was  informed  that 
it  was  impossible  to  procure  this  card  for  me,  and  that 
therefore  I  could  not  be  permitted  to  leave  Paris.  When 
I  asked  for  an  explanation,  it  was  refused  by  a  rather 
sanctimonious  person  who  put  his  arm  around  me,  called 
me  brother,  but  expressed  his  regret  at  the  unfortunate 
fact  of  my  having  been  born  in  Germany.  I  swallowed 
my  rage  as  best  I  could,  but  my  chagrin  was  all  the  greater 
because  in  the  meantime  M.  Casadesus  and  four  other 
distinguished  French  artists  had  offered  me  their  ser¬ 
vices  to  travel  around  with  me  in  a  motor-car  and  give 
concerts  in  our  camps  and  hospitals.  I  finally  obtained 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


241 


the  information  from  a  very  nice  young  man  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  entertainment  division  of  the  “Y”  that  he 
understood  that  the  objections  came  from  the  Intelligence 
Department  of  the  A.  E.  F.  I  immediately  called  on 
Major  Cabot  Ward,  the  head  of  the  Intelligence  Division 
in  Paris  whom  I  had  known  in  New  York  for  twenty-five 
years.  I  showed  him  my  various  credentials,  and  he  as¬ 
sured  me  that:  “As  far  as  the  United  States  army  is  con¬ 
cerned,  you  are  as  free  as  air.”  I  returned  with  this  in¬ 
formation  to  the  Rue  d’Agesseau  and  was  met  by  the 
same  impenetrable  wall  of  ignorance  or  ill- will;  and,  as  my 
friends  at  the  French  High  Commission  had  already  as¬ 
sured  me  that  as  far  as  they  were  concerned  all  France 
was  open  to  me,  I  seemed  to  be  at  my  wit’s  end  how  to 
unravel  this  riddle. 

I  finally  called  on  my  friend,  Robert  Bliss,  counsellor 
of  our  embassy  in  Paris.  I  can  never  forget  his  kindness 
and  helpfulness  during  this  period.  He  and  his  charming 
wife  had  made  their  apartment  the  very  centre  of  Amer¬ 
ican  life  during  those  trying  times.  Mrs.  Bliss  had  reso¬ 
lutely  refused  to  leave  Paris,  and  dispensed  a  generous 
hospitality  at  their  apartment  in  the  Rue  Henri  Moissan. 
When  I  told  him  of  my  troubles  and  that  I,  who  had  lived 
in  America  forty-seven  years,  should  now  be  thus  treated, 
he  smiled  and  said:  “We  can  do  nothing  for  you  at  pres¬ 
ent,  as  you  are  still  a  part  of  the  organization  of  the  Y.  M. 
C.  A.,  but  as  soon  as  you  get  that  uniform  off,  you  will 
find  every  road  open  to  you.” 

That  wretched  uniform !  It  had  annoyed  me  from  the 
first  moment  I  had  put  it  on  because  the  tailor  to  whom 
the  “Y”  had  sent  me  had  made  a  miserable  job  of  it.  It 
was  too  narrow  between  the  shoulders,  which  is  fatal  for 
an  orchestral  conductor,  and  the  trousers  were  a  tragedy. 


242 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


But  there  was  no  time  before  sailing  to  order  a  better¬ 
fitting  uniform,  and  as  I  had  been  told  that  I  could  not 
move  an  inch  in  France  without  it  I  had  literally  taken  no 
civilian  clothes  with  me !  I  had  ordered  some  new  clothes 
in  Paris,  but  there  was  a  tailors’  strike  on  and  I  was  there¬ 
fore,  for  decency’s  sake,  compelled  to  hold  on  to  that 
uniform,  much  as  I  longed  to  divest  myself  of  the  symbol 
of  the  sacred  triangle.  However,  I  began  to  see  daylight, 
and  as  I  hoped  by  the  following  Monday  or  Tuesday  to 
get  my  new  civilian  clothes,  I  decided  to  conduct  the  two 
concerts  on  Saturday  and  Sunday  and  then  magnificently 
hand  in  my  resignation.  But  I  was  not  spared  a  last  drop 
of  bitterness,  for  on  Saturday  morning  I  received  a  visit 
from  a  very  stupid  and  exasperating  officier  de  liaison  of 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  who  proceeded  to  inform  me  that  as  I 
had  been  “born  in  Germany”  and  therefore  could  not  ob¬ 
tain  my  carte  rouge ,  the  committee  of  the  “Y”  thought 
that  I  should  not  conduct  the  two  concerts  in  their  uni¬ 
form.  Again  that  accursed  uniform !  I  was  so  enraged 
that  I  said  I  would  either  conduct  in  it  or  in  my  under¬ 
clothes,  that  my  resignation  had  already  been  written 
and  would  be  presented  on  Monday,  and  that  I  insisted 
on  an  interview  with  Mr.  Carter  and  his  executive  com¬ 
mittee,  as  I  wished  them  to  know  how  I  had  been  treated. 
I  knew  that  Mr.  Carter,  poor  man,  had  no  knowledge  of 
the  entire  affair,  as  he  had  been  zigzagging  around  France 
all  this  time  to  the  various  posts  and  supply  centres  of  the 
“Y,”  trying  to  bring  some  kind  of  order  out  of  chaos. 
He  immediately  accorded  me  a  meeting,  and  when  I  told 
my  story,  made  me  an  apology  so  ample  and  generous 
that  I  left  him  with  none  but  the  kindliest  feelings  and 
really  regretted  that  he,  a  man  of  high  ideals  and  spiritual 
power,  should  through  the  exigencies  of  war  have  been 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


243 


so  overburdened  with  practical  affairs.  For  a  few  of  his 
aids  I  have  nothing  but  absolute  contempt,  but  there  were 
many  among  the  men  workers  and  certainly  the  majority 
of  the  women  who  gave  wonderful  service  and  gladly  suf¬ 
fered  all  kinds  of  annoyances  and  deprivations  in  order 
to  help  the  soldiers,  who  were  not  all  angels  by  any 
means. 

But  my  real  triumph  was  to  come  on  the  very  Sunday 
morning  of  my  concert  when  General  Charles  Dawes,  of 
the  American  army,  called  on  me  at  my  hotel  and,  to  my 
amazement,  asked  me  whether  I  could  come  to  the  gen¬ 
eral  headquarters  of  the  A.  E.  F.  at  Chaumont,  and  con¬ 
fer  with  General  Pershing  regarding  the  possible  improve¬ 
ment  of  our  army  bands.  I  could  not  believe  my  ears  that 
so  suddenly  after  my  bitter  experiences  with  the  “Y,” 
the  commander-in-chief  of  the  American  army  in  France 
had  personally  sent  for  me. 

General  Dawes  was  at  that  time  at  the  head  of  the 
army  supplies,  with  headquarters  in  Paris.  A  great  lover 
of  music,  he  had  contributed  largely  to  its  cultivation  in 
his  own  city  of  Chicago.  He  was  an  old  and  valued  friend 
of  General  Pershing  and  I  think  that  it  was  he  who  had 
suggested  my  name  to  him.  I  can  never  thank  General 
Dawes  enough  for  giving  me,  a  musician  and  over  fifty 
years  of  age,  this  wonderful  opportunity  to  touch  even 
the  outer  hem  of  the  robes  of  the  war  goddess. 

Needless  to  say,  my  despondent  mood  immediately 
changed  to  one  of  elation.  I  accepted  the  invitation 
with  alacrity  and  arranged  with  General  Dawes  to  go  to 
Chaumont  on  the  following  Wednesday,  July  17. 

In  the  meantime  the  air  had  been  full  of  rumors  regard¬ 
ing  the  “Big  Bertha”  who  had  been  conveniently  silent 
ever  since  my  arrival  in  Paris.  It  was  persistently  said 


244 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


that  on  Monday  morning  seventeen  of  these  ladies  bear¬ 
ing  the  same  name  would  again  begin  a  bombardment  of 
Paris,  and  I  confess  that  it  gave  me  something  of  a  shock, 
when,  on  the  Monday  morning  after  my  concert  while  I 
was  still  luxuriating  in  bed — thinking  with  pleasure  of  the 
triumphs  of  the  day  before  and  with  eager  anticipation 
of  my  approaching  trip  to  Chaumont — I  suddenly  heard 
a  curious  reverberation,  different  from  the  explosions  of 
the  Gothas  or  of  the  answering  air-guns.  It  was  the  first 
greeting  of  Madame  Bertha,  and  this  greeting  was  re¬ 
peated  punctiliously  every  fifteen  minutes  throughout 
the  day,  the  shells  striking  in  Paris  in  different  quarters. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  the  French  people.  After 
every  shot,  crowds  of  them  would  run  into  the  streets, 
talking,  gesticulating,  and  speculating  where  that  par¬ 
ticular  shell  had  fallen.  This  would  go  on  for  thirteen  or 
fourteen  minutes  and  then  all  would  scoot  back  into  their 
shops  and  houses  as  they  knew  that  the  next  shell  was 
about  due. 

That  evening  I  had  been  invited  to  dine  at  Mrs.  Edith 
Wharton’s,  at  her  lovely  apartment  in  the  Rue  de  Va- 
rennes.  Just  as  I  got  to  her  door  a  Frenchman  stopped 
and  said  to  me  that  he  had  been  at  the  concert  on  the 
preceding  day.  He  then  added:  “I  see  that  you  are  mak¬ 
ing  the  acquaintance  of  ‘La  Grosse  Berthe.’  ”  Thinking 
that  he  referred  to  the  return  of  the  bombardment,  I 
smiled  assent,  and  then  proceeded  to  Mrs.  Wharton’s 
apartment.  I  found  our  great  novelist  with  two  other 
ladies,  an  American  officer,  and  an  American  composer,  my 
dear  friend  Blair  Fairchild,  who  had  been  living  in  Paris 
for  several  years  and  was  acting  most  ably  as  distribut¬ 
ing  agent  for  the  money  which  our  “Society  of  American 
Friends  of  Musicians  in  France'’  was  sending  over.  The 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


245 


dinner  proceeded  as  if  we  lived  in  times  of  deepest  peace. 
It  was  served  with  punctilious  efficiency,  the  flowers  were 
charming,  and  the  conversation  delightful,  and  it  was 
only  when  dinner  was  half  over  that  I  found  out,  quite 
casually,  that  what  my  French  gentleman  at  the  door 
had  referred  to  was,  that  only  two  minutes  before  my  ar¬ 
rival  the  last  shell  of  the  Big  Bertha  had  fallen  on  the 
roof  of  the  house  opposite,  demolishing  ft  and  parts  of 
the  upper  story. 

On  the  following  Wednesday,  July  17,  I  took  the  morn¬ 
ing  train  for  Chaumont,  again  comfortably  clad  in  civilian 
clothes.  I  was  met  at  the  station  by  a  young  officer, 
Lieutenant  Wendell,  nephew  of  my  old  friend  Evart 
Wendell,  who  took  me  to  general  headquarters  and  in¬ 
troduced  me  to  Lieutenant-Colonel  Collins,  secretary  of 
the  General  Staff,  who  explained  to  me  in  detail  various 
points  on  which  General  Pershing  desired  information 
and  assistance.  I  was  then  most  comfortably  put  up  at 
the  guest-house,  formerly  a  large  private  residence  in  the 
town,  which  had  been  taken  over  by  General  Pershing  to 
accommodate  his  visitors.  I  was  to  dine  at  his  chateau 
that  evening,  and  spent  a  great  part  of  the  afternoon 
walking  through  the  quaint  old  hill  town  situated  on  a 
high  cliff  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Marne.  It  was 
during  this  walk  that  I  saw  the  only  drunken  American 
private  during  my  three  months’  stay  in  France.  I  was 
following  a  picturesque  road  leading  out  of  the  town  into 
the  country,  when  a  colored  boy  in  khaki  reeled  toward 
me  and  said:  “  ’Scuse  me,  sah.  Are  you  a  Frenchman?” 
I  said  “No,”  and  he  replied:  “Then  foh  Gawd  sake,  will 
you  please  tell  me  whar  ah  can  get  a  drink? ”  I  answered : 
“No.  You  have  evidently  had  enough  already.”  He 
tried  to  follow  me  and  I,  seeing  two  white  soldiers  ap- 


246 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


proaching,  turned  to  them  and  said:  “I  think  you  had 
better  take  care  of  this  boy.  He  has  had  too  much  to 
drink.”  They  briskly  answered:  “ Certainly,  sir.”  But 
as  they  went  up  to  him  he  kept  peering  at  me  and  said: 
“I  want  to  talk  to  that  gen’Ieman.  That’s  Mr.  Dam- 
rosch!”  I  laughed  out  loud,  for  here  I  was,  over  three 
thousand  miles  from  home,  and  this  boy,  who  perhaps 
had  musical  inclinations  and  had  heard  me  conduct  in 
some  concert,  recognized  me  even  through  the  alcoholic 
vapors  which  surrounded  him  so  thickly  that  one  could 
have  cut  them  with  a  knife. 

One  of  the  other  visitors  at  the  guest-house  was  Gen¬ 
eral  Omar  Bundy,  who  commanded  the  first  division  and 
had  come  to  Chaumont  to  receive  the  congratulations 
of  the  commander-in-chief  on  the  splendid  work  of  his 
division.  He  proved  a  delightful  gentleman,  and  we 
chatted  together  very  amicably  as  a  motor-car  took  us 
that  evening  about  five  miles  beyond  Chaumont  through 
most  lovely  country  to  the  chateau  surrounded  by  ex¬ 
quisite  gardens  and  woods  which  General  Pershing  had 
taken  for  his  personal  residence.  A  scene  of  greater 
peace  and  tranquillity  could  not  be  imagined,  and  liter¬ 
ally  the  only  sign  and  symbol  of  war  was  the  solitary 
sentry  pacing  up  and  down  before  the  entrance,  with 
bayonet  fixed. 

As  this  happened  to  be  the  first  day  of  General  Foch’s 
great  attack  in  which  he  pushed  the  Germans  back  six 
miles,  General  Pershing,  who  had  been  at  the  front  all 
day,  had  not  yet  returned,  and  General  Bundy  and  I 
walked  through  the  grounds  in  the  lovely  evening  twi¬ 
light  for  perhaps  half  an  hour,  when  a  motor-car  drove 
up  and  our  great  commander-in-chief,  accompanied  by 
his  aide,  immediately  came  over  to  us  and  made  us  wel- 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


247 


come  in  hearty  and  simple  fashion.  He  reminded  me 
that  we  had  met  at  the  Presidio  in  San  Francisco  during 
the  great  exhibition  of  1915,  and  indeed  I  remembered  it 
well,  for  shortly  afterward  he  had  been  sent  to  the 
Mexican  border  in  command  of  the  troops,  and  while 
there  had  been  overwhelmed  by  the  terrible  tragedy  of 
the  death  of  his  wife  and  children,  who  were  suffocated 
in  a  fire  at  night  which  destroyed  their  home  at  the 
Presidio. 

So  much  has  been  written  regarding  the  wonderful 
impression  which  General  Pershing  made  in  Europe  on 
all  who  came  in  contact  with  him  that  it  is  not  necessary 
for  me  to  more  than  echo  the  general  chorus  of  praise — 
soldierly,  dignified,  courteous,  and  simple  in  his  bearing, 
wearing  a  uniform  as  only  a  man  can  who  has  been  a 
soldier  all  his  life. 

We  entered  the  house  and  shortly  after  sat  down  to 
dinner.  The  party  consisted  of  the  commander-in-chief, 
General  Bundy,  and  a  most  delightful  staff  of  eight  of¬ 
ficers — I  being  the  only  civilian.  As  such  I  expected  and 
half  hoped  that  the  talk  would  be  all  about  the  wonderful 
success  of  the  first  day’s  push  by  Foch,  of  which  I  had 
already  heard  enthusiastic  rumors  in  the  town,  or  of 
great  military  secrets,  affairs  of  strategy,  monster  guns, 
thousands  of  airplanes,  and  new,  mysterious  machines  of 
destruction.  But,  to  my  surprise,  the  conversation  dur¬ 
ing  almost  the  entire  dinner  was  of  music,  of  its  influence 
in  raising  the  spirits  of  the  soldier,  in  giving  him  the  right 
kind  of  recreation  and  the  necessary  relief  from  the 
monotony  of  camp  work  or  the  horrors  of  battle.  Gen¬ 
eral  Pershing  told  me  that  after  hearing  some  of  the  crack 
military  bands  of  France  and  England  he  had  been  so 
overwhelmed  by  the  consciousness  of  our  inferiority  that 


248 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


he  was  eager  to  know  if  something  could  not  be  done  to 
improve  the  general  standard  of  our  army  bands,  and, 
more  particularly,  whether  it  might  not  be  possible  at 
least  to  take  out  the  best  players  from  among  the  bands 
then  in  France  and  to  form  a  headquarters  band  of 
superior  excellence,  led  by  the  best  bandmaster  among 
them,  and  in  this  way  form  a  model  which  the  others 
could  endeavor  to  copy.  This  suggestion  seemed  to  me 
excellent,  and  I  asked  how  many  bandmasters  there  were 
at  present  in  France,  as  I  would  like  to  examine  them  as 
to  their  fitness.  General  Pershing  said,  with  a  smile, 
that  there  were  over  two  hundred,  but  this  did  not  phase 
me  and  I  agreed  to  examine  them  all,  provided  that  proper 
arrangements  could  be  made  for  a  fitting  test  of  their 
qualifications.  Various  plans  for  such  an  examination 
were  discussed  and  General  Pershing  finally  decided  to 
send  them  all  to  Paris  in  batches  of  fifty  every  week,  to¬ 
gether  with  a  military  band  which  should  be  stationed 
there  for  the  following  four  or  five  weeks,  thus  giving  me 
abundant  opportunity  to  test  their  efficiency  in  conduct¬ 
ing  as  well  as  in  harmony  and  orchestration.  It  seemed 
to  me  at  the  time  remarkable  that,  in  the  midst  of  war 
and  with  all  its  many  immediate  necessities  weighing 
upon  him,  General  Pershing  should  have  had  the  acumen 
to  perceive  the  value  of  music  in  war  time  and  to  interest 
himself  in  its  improvement. 

As  I  sat  there,  the  memory  of  the  hollow-cheeked  Band¬ 
master  Tyler  who  had  stood  next  to  me  at  the  Fourth  of 
July  parade  in  Paris  suddenly  came  back.  I  thought  to 
myself  that  here  I  was,  the  only  civilian  at  the  table,  and 
that  therefore  I  might  say  anything  I  pleased  without 
being  put  up  against  a  wall  at  sunrise  and  shot,  for  at 
the  worst  they  could  only  consider  me  as  very  ignorant 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


249 


of  army  customs.  Therefore  I  watched  for  my  opportun¬ 
ity  and  suddenly  plunged  in  and  spoke  of  my  conversation 
with  Bandmaster  Tyler  while  we  were  waiting  for  our 
marines  to  march  down  the  Champs-EIysees.  I  said  that 
in  my  humble  opinion  it  was  a  great  mistake  to  use  mu¬ 
sicians  as  stretcher-bearers  in  battle,  not  that  their  lives 
as  soldiers  were  any  more  valuable  than  those  of  any 
others  in  the  army,  but  that  a  stretcher-bearer  could  be 
trained  in  a  very  short  time  while  it  took  many  months 
to  train  a  bandsman;  that  the  Canadian  regiments  had 
followed  the  same  custom  during  the  first  months  of  the 
war,  but  the  results  had  been  so  dire  in  destroying  the 
bands  and  their  usefulness,  that  the  soldiers  themselves 
had  implored  their  commanding  officers  not  to  let  their 
bandsmen  be  sacrificed  in  this  way,  as  there  was  nothing 
so  terrible  as  coming  back  after  battle  to  a  silent  and 
therefore  desolate  camp.  After  I  had  finished  my  rather 
impassioned  peroration,  General  Bundy  and  others  heart¬ 
ily  agreed  with  me,  but  General  Pershing  said  nothing 
at  all,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  perhaps  talked  too  much  and 
mal  a  propos.  But  the  following  morning,  as  I  was  seated 
with  Colonel  Collins  at  general  headquarters  arranging 
the  details  of  my  examinations,  he  smilingly  handed  me 
an  order  from  the  commander-in-chief  which  had  just 
arrived  and  which  was  to  be  sent  to  the  division  com¬ 
manders,  to  the  effect  that  “from  now  on  bandsmen  are 
not  to  be  used  any  longer  as  stretcher-bearers  except  in 
cases  of  extreme  military  urgency.” 

One  of  General  Pershing’s  remarks  during  the  dinner  is 
so  characteristic  that  I  repeat  it  here.  He  said:  “When 
peace  is  declared  and  our  bands  march  up  Fifth  Avenue 
I  should  like  them  to  play  so  well  that  it  will  be  another 
proof  of  the  advantage  of  military  training.”  Subse- 


250 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


quent  developments  and  meetings  with  this  interesting 
man  further  deepened  the  impression  which  he  made 
upon  me. 

I  returned  to  Paris  and  proceeded  to  make  all  neces¬ 
sary  arrangements  for  the  examinations  of  the  two  hun¬ 
dred  bandmasters.  Our  army  had  leased  a  large  hotel  near 
the  Bastille  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and  a  large  room 
on  the  ground  floor  served  admirably  for  my  purpose. 
The  band  of  the  329th  infantry  soon  arrived  and  was 
quartered  in  this  hotel,  and  every  morning  at  9.30  the 
examinations  began  and  continued  from  Monday  to 
Thursday  at  the  rate  of  about  fifty  bandmasters  a  week, 
who  arrived  from  all  quarters  of  France — from  the  sea¬ 
port  towns,  from  the  training  camps,  and  some  even  from 
the  very  front  line  of  the  trenches.  Fridays  I  would 
usually  return  to  headquarters  and  report  on  my  findings 
and  begin  recommendations,  which  gradually  assumed 
greater  and  greater  proportions  as  the  magnitude  of  the 
work  developed. 

To  assist  me  in  this  prodigious  work,  I  engaged  the 
services  of  M.  Francis  Casadesus,  brother  of  Henri  and 
a  splendid  musician.  He  examined  the  men  as  to  their 
qualifications  in  instrumentating  and  in  their  general 
knowledge  of  the  various  instruments,  while  I  examined 
them  in  the  actual  process  of  conducting  and  drilling  a 
band.  I  would  first  let  them  bite  their  teeth  into  an  over¬ 
ture  like  the  “Oberon”  of  Weber,  or  a  movement  from  a 
classical  symphony,  and  then  would  let  them  conduct  a 
composition  of  their  own  choice.  I  found  very  soon  that 
while  most  of  these  young  bandmasters  were  musically 
talented  and  ambitious,  they  had  had  no  or  but  little 
opportunity  for  acquiring  what  we  may  call  the  technic 
of  the  baton.  They  had  had  no  intensive  disciplinary 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


251 


training  such  as  our  young  officers  from  civilian  life  had 
received  at  Plattsburg  and  similar  camps.  Many  of 
them  did  not  know  how  to  beat  time  properly,  much  less 
train  a  band  in  phrasing  or  rhythmic  accuracy;  and  I  soon 
saw  that  unless  some  opportunity  was  given  them  to 
learn  at  least  the  rudiments  of  their  calling,  the  effort 
toward  improving  our  bands  would  be  useless.  It  there¬ 
fore  seemed  to  me  that  the  quick  formation  of  a  band¬ 
masters’  school  was  the  only  solution  of  the  problem,  and 
as  our  army  had  had  the  help  of  French  military  and 
aviation  officers  as  instructors,  loaned  to  us  by  the 
Ministere  de  la  Guerre ,  I  thought  that  a  similar  arrange¬ 
ment  could  be  made,  under  which  we  might  obtain  the 
necessary  musical  instructors  also  from  the  French  army, 
as  nearly  all  the  musicians  of  France  were  at  that  time 
in  uniform. 

I  also  discovered  that  some  of  the  most  important 
musical  instruments  which  give  mellowness  and  nobility 
to  the  tone  of  a  band  were  almost  utterly  lacking.  We 
had  hardly  any  oboes,  bassoons,  French  horns,  or  flligel- 
horns.  I  knew  that  some  of  the  greatest  masters  of  these 
instruments,  first  prizes  of  the  Conservatoire  of  Paris, 
were  serving  in  the  French  army,  and  immediately, 
through  the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts,  obtained  their 
names  and  the  regiments  to  which  they  belonged.  On 
the  following  visit  to  Chaumont  I  proposed  to  General 
Pershing  that  we  form  a  music-school  at  which  fifty  band¬ 
masters  could  get  the  most  intensive  musical  training 
and  discipline  for  eight  weeks,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  new 
batch  of  fifty,  etc.,  and  at  the  same  time  forty  pupils  each 
in  oboe,  bassoon,  French  horn,  and  fliigelhorn  could  get 
a  similar  training  of  twelve  weeks  on  their  respective  in¬ 
struments. 


2$2 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


General  Pershing  and  his  staff  were  delighted  with  the 
plan  and  I  offered  to  procure  the  necessary  instructors 
from  the  French  army,  promising  General  Pershing  that 
the  school  would  be  in  complete  running  order  by  Octo¬ 
ber  i,  provided  a  proper  building  could  be  obtained.  The 
general  asked  me  where  I  wished  to  place  the  school  and 
offered  me  Longres,  where  several  schools  on  the  strategy 
of  war  were  already  in  progress,  but  I  claimed  that  the 
surroundings  for  my  music-school  should  be  of  a  more 
“  peaceful  and  even  academic  character,”  and  suggested 
Chaumont.  General  Pershing  smiled,  but  insisted  that  it 
was  already  overcrowded  and  that  I  would  not  be  able  to 
find  a  building  large  enough  to  house  so  great  a  number 
of  instructors  and  pupils.  He  gave  me  full  power,  how¬ 
ever,  to  see  what  could  be  done,  and  I  set  forth  immedi¬ 
ately  with  a  French  liaison  officer — member  of  the  French 
Military  Commission  at  Chaumont,  and  in  G-5,  general 
headquarters,  under  which  department  the  proposed 
music-school  would  come — who  proved  a  most  remarkable 
and  valuable  assistant  in  my  work.  He  was  Lieutenant 
Michel  Weill,  nephew  of  the  owner  of  the  well-known 
White  Flouse  in  San  Francisco,  and  an  enthusiastic 
musical  amateur  who,  through  his  long  residence  in 
America,  had  acquired  a  knowledge  of  English  and  a 
sympathy  for  America  only  second  to  that  for  his  own 
native  land.  He  belonged  to  a  delightful  French  officers’ 
mess  at  Chaumont,  and  they  immediately  made  me  a 
kind  of  honorary  member  and  in  most  hospitable  fashion 
invited  me  to  their  Lucullan  repasts.  As  they  were  all 
enthusiastic  lovers  of  music,  I  endeavored  to  repay  them 
by  pounding  out  Wagner,  their  supreme  favorite,  to  their 
hearts’  content  on  an  old  upright  piano  placed  in  a  little 
sitting-room  next  to  their  salle  a  manger . 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


^53 


Lieutenant  Weill  and  I  first  paid  a  visile  de  ceremonie 
to  the  Maire  of  Chaumont  and  explained  to  him  our  de¬ 
sire.  The  idea  of  what  he  called  “im  petit  conservatoire 
de  musique  pour  les  Americains ”  in  Chaumont  appealed 
to  his  fancy  immensely,  and  he  immediately  picked  up 
his  telephone  and  called  up  an  old  friend  of  his,  a  fellow 
citizen  and  mill  owner.  He  explained  to  him  the  great 
honor  that  was  about  to  befall  their  town  if  a  proper  build¬ 
ing  could  be  found,  and  exhorted  him  to  show  himself  as 
a  really  patriotic  citizen  of  France  and  friend  of  the 
Americans  by  giving  the  mill  which  he  owned  just  out¬ 
side  the  city  and  only  a  few  minutes’  walk  from  our 
headquarters  for  this  noble  purpose.  We  motored  to 
this  building  and  met  there  an  elderly,  dignified,  and 
courteous  Frenchman  who  told  us  that  anything  he  had 
was  at  the  disposal  of  “les  Americains.”  We  found  a 
huge  mill  with  walls  two  feet  thick,  the  machinery  in 
disuse,  and  with  large  empty  spaces  that  our  army  en¬ 
gineers  could  easily  turn  into  sleeping-quarters,  practis- 
ing-rooms,  and  other  needs  for  a  music-school.  In  one 
large  wing  we  found  a  few  women  and  many  children 
playing  about.  I  said:  “Of  course,  we  shall  need  this 
wing  also.”  “Then  I  regret,”  answered  the  owner, 
“but  this  wing  you  cannot  have,  because  I  have  given  it 
to  forty-eight  refugees  from  Verdun  with  the  promise 
that  they  shall  occupy  it  until  the  end  of  the  war.”  Nat¬ 
urally  Lieutenant  Weill  and  I  reconsidered,  and  con¬ 
cluded  that  a  large  tent  could  be  put  up  in  the  meadow  as 
an  eating-place,  and  that  we  could  get  along  without  the 
extra  wing.  I  then  asked  the  owner  what  rental  he 
would  demand.  “Oh,”  he  said,  “anything  that  the 
American  army  wishes  to  pay.”  But  when  Lieutenant 
Weill  informed  him  that  he  should  fix  a  fair  price,  he 


254 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


asked  timidly:  “ Would  the  American  army  consider  five 
hundred  francs  a  month  reasonable?”  I  tell  this  to  offset 
the  tales  of  those  people  who  keep  harping  on  the  com¬ 
mercial  greed  of  the  French  in  anything  that  concerned 
the  needs  of  the  American  soldier. 

We  returned  to  general  headquarters  jubilant,  and,  af¬ 
ter  a  satisfactory  interview  with  the  officer  in  charge  of 
building  operations,  it  was  decided  to  place  the  school  in 
Chaumont,  and  I  returned  to  Paris  to  complete  my  plans. 

My  brother  Frank  had  recognized  the  lack  of  good 
schooling  for  our  army  bands  and  bandmasters  many 
years  before  the  war,  and  had  very  patriotically  placed 
the  entire  machinery  of  his  Institute  of  Musical  Art  at 
the  disposal  of  the  secretary  of  war.  An  arrangement  had 
accordingly  been  made  by  which  a  bandmaster’s  school 
at  Governor’s  Island,  New  York,  was  placed  under  my 
brother’s  control,  and  for  several  years  before  the  war  a 
small  number  of  bandmasters  were  graduated  from  it 
who  ranked  well  on  a  par  with  those  of  other  countries. 
But  when  we  entered  the  war  and  our  army  was  organ¬ 
ized  on  a  scale  of  millions  these  were  but  a  drop  in  the 
bucket,  and  heroic  measures  were  necessary  to  bring  some 
semblance  of  order  into  this  musical  chaos  of  hundreds  of 
uneducated  bandmasters  and  thousands  of  still  less  edu¬ 
cated  bandsmen. 

During  these  five  weeks  in  Paris  and  Chaumont  I 
worked  very  hard  and,  while  my  life  has  been  crowded 
with  affairs  of  all  kinds  relating  to  my  profession,  I  can¬ 
not  recall  any  time  when  the  work  was  so  constant  day 
and  night  or  when  I  was  more  jubilantly  happy  in  the 
doing  of  it.  During  the  forenoons  Casadesus  and  I  would 
examine  the  bandmasters,  discover  what  they  could  and 
could  not  do,  give  them,  so  to  speak,  “first  aid  to  the 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


255 


wounded”  by  pointing  out  their  worst  failings  or  their 
greatest  weaknesses.  In  the  afternoons  Lieutenant  Weill 
and  I  would  run  around  to  the  various  French  government 
departments  on  the  track  of  this  or  that  musician  whom 
we  wished  to  corral  as  professor  for  our  school.  At  night 
I  would  sit  propped  up  in  bed  and  work  out  the  entire 
tuition  plan  of  the  school,  down  to  the  minutest  details. 

My  general  recommendations  to  general  headquarters, 
all  of  which  were  subsequently  carried  out,  included 
classes  for  the  bandmasters’  instruction  in  the  technic 
of  conducting,  in  harmony,  and  in  orchestration.  These 
classes  were  put  in  charge  of  M.  Francis  Casadesus  and 
M.  Andre  Caplet.  The  latter  was  later  on  succeeded  by 
Lieutenant  Albert  Stoessel,  a  highly  talented  bandmaster 
in  our  army,  who  has  returned  to  civilian  life  and  •  has 
now  become  my  successor  as  conductor  of  the  New  York 
Oratorio  Society. 

Captain  Ellacott,  of  the  A.  E.  F.,  became  the  military 
head  of  the  school  to  which  he  gave  most  sympathetic 
assistance. 

There  were  two  professors  each  for  oboe,  bassoon, 
French  horn,  and  fliigelhorn,  all  of  whom  were  graduates 
and  first  prizes  of  the  famous  Paris  Conservatoire.  I 
also  recommended  that  the  beautiful  B-flat  bugles  of 
the  French  army  be  adopted  by  us  and  that  a  French 
drum-major,  proficient  on  this  instrument,  be  appointed 
as  instructor  to  drill  successive  classes  of  fifty  for  one 
month  each,  the  graduates  to  become  first  buglers  of  our 
regiments,  in  order  that  they  might,  in  turn,  instruct  other 
buglers  in  their  respective  drum  and  bugle  corps. 

At  the  examinations  I  also  asked  the  bandmasters  cer¬ 
tain  questions  regarding  their  position  in  their  respective 
regiments,  the  attitude  of  their  colonel  toward  music, 


256 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


their  general  treatment,  and  the  hours  allowed  them  for 
musical  practice,  and  here  I  came  on  all  kinds  of  con¬ 
ditions.  Some  of  the  commanding  officers  had  no  sym¬ 
pathy  with  music  or  with  the  bandsmen,  and  instead  of 
making  them  practise  their  six  hours  a  day,  they  were 
put  to  work  as  kitchen  police  and  on  other  fatigue  duties. 
I  therefore  urged  that  the  commanding  officers  be  im¬ 
pressed  with  the  fact  that  the  primary  object  of  the  band 
is  not  to  fight,  but  to  cheer  the  fighters,  and  the  better 
their  music,  the  greater  its  beneficial  effects  upon  the 
spirit  of  the  soldiers,  and  that  therefore  all  bandsmen 
should  be  compelled  to  devote  at  least  five  or  six  hours 
every  day  to  the  practice  of  their  instruments  and  to 
rehearsals,  and  that  other  duties  should  be  made  sub¬ 
sidiary  to  their  musical  work  and  should  not  be  of  a 
character  to  unfit  them  for  a  proper  performance  on  their 
respective  instruments. 

I  also  discovered  that  there  was  a  terrible  wastage  as 
regards  musical  instruments  and  that  in  several  instances, 
preparatory  to  going  into  action,  the  instruments  had  been 
thrown  away  or  simply  left  behind,  nevermore  to  be  re¬ 
covered,  and  that  therefore  it  might  be  wise  to  appoint 
a  travelling  inspector  of  musical  instruments  whose  duties 
should  be  to  attend  to  the  speedy  replacement  of  miss¬ 
ing  parts,  the  repairing  of  instruments,  and  the  supplying 
of  new  music. 

A  really  excellent  headquarters  band  was  formed  at 
Chaumont,  which  became  a  source  of  much  gratification 
to  the  commander-in-chief  and  his  staff,  accompanying 
him  on  many  of  his  ceremonial  visits  and  functions. 

One  of  my  most  important  recommendations  for  the 
school  was  that  every  week  at  least  one  concert  should  be 
given  by  the  professors  and  such  of  the  bandsmen  as  were 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


257 


really  competent  musicians.  The  programmes  should  be 
made  up  only  of  the  great  master  composers,  in  order  that 
the  students — many  of  whom  had  come  from  isolated 
communities  in  our  country  and  had  had  but  little  oppor¬ 
tunity  to  hear  good  music — should  become  sensitive  to 
the  finer  and  more  spiritual  qualities  of  music  as  an  art. 
This  was  carried  out  in  most  remarkable  fashion  during 
the  entire  existence  of  the  school,  and  the  programmes 
and  their  performance  were  worthy  of  a  place  in  any 
highly  cultivated  musical  community. 

When  I  returned  to  Chaumont  on  a  visit  of  inspection 
the  following  year,  I  heard  one  of  these  concerts,  which 
included  a  quintet  of  Mozart  for  oboe  and  strings  and  a 
sonata  for  violin  and  piano  by  Cesar  Franck.  I  sat  in 
delighted  amazement  as  I  saw  the  happy  faces  of  over  a 
hundred  students  in  khaki  who  were  listening  to  this 
divine  music  in  rapt  silence.  What  a  pity  that  such  a 
school  cannot  be  founded  in  every  State  in  America  now 
that  the  war  is  over  and  our  soldiers  have  returned  home! 
This  would  speedily  result  in  an  excellent  band  for  every 
town  and  lay  a  real  foundation  for  the  musical  develop¬ 
ment  of  the  people  at  large. 

During  these  weeks  in  Paris  I  also  saw  a  great  deal  of 
some  of  my  French  musician  colleagues,  all  of  whom  had 
refused  to  leave  Paris  in  spite  of  the  Gothas  and  Berthas. 

When  I  first  called  on  Charles  Marie  Widor,  the  famous 
old  organist  of  Saint  Sulpice,  I  found  him  installed,  by 
virtue  of  his  office  as  Secretaire  Perpetuel  of  the  Institut 
de  France ,  in  a  charming  Louis  XVI  suite  of  rooms  in 
that  building.  He  showed  me  a  hole  in  the  window  of 
his  workroom  and  told  me  that  a  few  days  before  he  had 
just  stooped  down  to  pick  up  a  musical  score  from  the 
floor  when  a  shell  from  the  Big  Bertha  burst  in  front  of 


258 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


his  apartment  and  a  piece  of  it  hurtled  through  his  win¬ 
dow,  missing  him  only  because  he  was  in  a  stooping  posi¬ 
tion. 

His  Gallic  wit  and  versatility  make  him  a  delightful 
companion,  and  I  am  grateful  for  the  opportunity  the 
war  gave  me  for  more  intimate  acquaintance  and  friend¬ 
ship  with  him.  Indeed,  this  applies  to  all  the  friends 
made  during  that  eventful  summer.  The  war  brought 
us  more  quickly  and  closely  together  than  would  have 
been  possible  otherwise,  and  as  I  was  an  American  I 
reaped  the  full  advantage  of  all  the  intense  gratitude 
which  the  French  felt  for  us,  some  of  which  was  hardly 
deserved,  as  our  government  certainly  had  shilly-shallied 
and  waited  until  it  was  almost  too  late  before  they  threw 
our  great  weight  of  men  and  treasure  into  the  balance. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  Mile.  Nadia  Boulanger,  who 
played  the  organ  for  me  at  the  performance  of  Saint- 
Saens’s  “  Third  Symphony  ”  on  July  14.  Among  women 
I  have  never  met  her  equal  in  musicianship,  and  indeed 
there  are  very  few  men  who  can  compare  with  her.  She 
is  one  of  the  finest  organists  of  France,  an  excellent  pian¬ 
ist,  and  the  best  reader  of  orchestral  scores  that  I  have 
ever  known.  Again  and  again  I  have  seen  her  take  up  a 
manuscript  orchestral  score,  sit  down  with  it  at  the  piano, 
and  brilliantly  read  it  at  sight,  transcribing  it  for  the 
piano  as  she  played  along.  When  we  first  met,  she  and 
her  dear  mother  were  in  the  greatest  grief.  A  younger 
sister,  Lili,  had  died  only  a  month  before  at  twenty-four 
years  of  age.  Beautiful,  exquisite,  and  marvellously  tal¬ 
ented,  she  had  won  the  much-coveted  Prix  de  Rome 
three  years  before — the  first  woman  to  have  gained  it. 
A  mortal  illness  had  slowly  sapped  her  strength,  and  as 
she  had  been  the  idol  of  her  mother  and  sister,  her  loss 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


259 


was  to  them  a  tragedy  almost  beyond  endurance.  Nadia, 
besides  keeping  up  her  professional  duties — she  was  sub¬ 
stitute  organist  at  the  Madeleine  during  the  war — hurled 
herself  into  war  work  and  more  especially  the  care  of  the 
students  of  the  Conservatoire  who  were  at  the  front.  She 
knew  all  their  names  and  the  numbers  of  their  organiza¬ 
tions  and  founded  a  kind  of  musical  gazette,  mimeo¬ 
graphed  copies  of  which  were  sent  out  every  month  to  the 
students.  All  kinds  of  musical  news  and  musical  ques¬ 
tions  were  published  in  it,  so  that  these  boys,  in  the  midst 
of  their  military  duties  or  while  convalescing  from  their 
wounds  in  the  hospitals,  could  have  something  to  think 
about  more  immediately  connected  with  their  own  pro¬ 
fession.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that,  in  answer  to  the 
question,  “  Should  German  composers  like  Brahms  and 
Wagner  be  played  at  our  concerts  during  the  war?”  out 
of  fifty-eight,  forty-seven  answered  unequivocally  “Yes” 
for  Wagner  and  Brahms,  three  “Yes”  for  Beethoven  and 
the  classics,  two  were  undecided,  and  six  said  “No.” 
These  answers  were  accompanied  in  many  cases  by 
highly  interesting  essays  on  art  and  nationality  of  art, 
and,  altogether,  the  judgments  thus  expressed  reflected 
the  high  intellectual  standard  of  these  young  French  art¬ 
ists  at  the  front. 

I  saw  many  instances  of  how  keenly  the  French  sepa¬ 
rate  their  artistic  from  their  political  convictions.  One 
night  my  friends  of  the  French  Military  Commission  at 
Chaumont  had  come  to  Paris  and  one  of  them,  Captain 
Guegnier,  invited  me  to  dinner  at  his  apartment.  His 
wife  and  the  wife  of  one  of  his  colleagues  had  come  to 
Paris  from  the  country  especially  for  the  occasion.  We 
sat  down,  a  very  jolly  party  of  six,  to  a  most  delicious 
dinner  such  as  only  the  French  can  devise  and  properly 


i6o 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


execute.  As  all  the  party  were  musical  we  naturally  had 
a  good  deal  of  music  after  dinner.  The  ladies  sang  charm¬ 
ingly  and  I  had  to  play  excerpts  from  their  beloved  Wag- 
“Tristan,”  “Meistersinger,”  “Parsifal,”  and  the 


ner 


“Trilogy.”  My  hostess  sang  songs  of  Faure,  Chausson, 
and  Debussy,  and  just  then  the  sirens  boomed  out  their 
disagreeable  message  that  the  Gothas  were  taking  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  moonlit  night  to  make  one  of  their  raids  over 
Paris.  At  the  same  moment  the  taxi-cab  man,  who  had 
come  to  take  me  back  to  my  hotel,  announced  that  he 
had  arrived.  Would  he  like  to  come  up-stairs?  Oh, 
no,  he  would  just  sit  inside  the  cab  and  wait  till  I  got 
ready.  “Then  let  us  have  some  more  music,”  said  my 
hostess,  and  simply  drew  the  curtain  over  the  windows. 
And,  while  the  Gothas  were  scattering  their  shells  over 
Paris,  she  turned  to  me  and  said:  “Now  let  me  sing  for 
you  this  lovely  song  of  Schubert.”  There  was  my  French 
hostess  singing  German  songs,  and  it  was  not  until  about 
one  o’clock  in  the  morning  that  Lieutenant  Weill  and  I 
turned  homeward. 

The  vast  difference  in  attitude  between  the  French  and 
certain  of  my  compatriots  regarding  the  proper  stand  to 
be  taken  in  time  of  war  toward  the  art  of  an  enemy  na¬ 
tion  was  very  striking.  I  had  myself  decided  that  the 
New  York  Symphony  Orchestra  should  not  play  the 
works  of  living  German  composers,  and  that  the  German 
language  should  not  be  sung  at  our  concerts  during  the 
war.  There  seemed  to  me  good  and  valid  reasons  for 
such  a  course.  But  Beethoven,  Mozart,  and  Wagner  I 
considered  as  classics,  belonging  to  us  just  as  much  as  to 
Germany,  and  their  divine  message  had  naught  to  do 
with  the  political  and  military  leaders  of  Germany  who 
had  plunged  the  world  into  this  horrible  bath  of  blood. 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


261 


There  was,  however,  in  New  York  a  small  but  noisy 
group  led  by  a  few  women  who  sought  to  demonstrate 
their  4 ‘patriotism”  by  hysterical  outbursts  and  newspaper 
protests  against  the  performance  of  all  music  composed 
by  Germans,  no  matter  how  many  years  ago.  Some  of 
these  women,  through  the  curious  psychosis  of  war, 
really  thought  that  they  were  serving  their  country  by 
their  protests.  In  the  winter  of  1918  the  orchestra  of  the 
Paris  Conservatoire  made  a  tour  through  America  under 
their  conductor,  Andre  Messager.  When  I  called  on  him 
the  day  after  his  arrival  he  showed  me  a  letter  he  had 
just  received  from  one  of  these  women  protesting  against 
his  performing  a  Beethoven  Symphony  during  his  stay 
in  America.  He  was  white  with  anger,  and  when  I  asked 
him  how  he  would  answer  it,  he  said:  “I  will  answer  it  as 
a  French  artist  should.”  I  said:  “The  best  way  to  answer 
would  be  to  put  Beethoven’s  ‘Eroica’  Symphony  on  your 
first  programme.”  “I  will,”  he  said;  and  he  did. 

The  opposition  to  Wagner  was  based  on  very  amusing 
premises.  Because  some  of  his  heroes  were  wont  to  ap¬ 
pear  on  the  stage  in  very  blond  wigs  and  beards,  these 
lady  sleuth-hounds  seemed  to  perceive  some  evil  and  sub¬ 
tle  connection  between  Siegfried  in  the  “Nibelungen 
Trilogy”  and  Nietzsche’s  “blond  beast,”  which,  according 
to  his  prophecy,  was  eventually  to  control  the  earth. 
Their  studies  of  Wagner  were  too  shallow  to  enable  them 
to  realize  that  the  whole  philosophy  of  life  as  expressed 
by  Wagner  in  the  “Nibelungen  Trilogy”  was  in  direct 
contrast  to  the  desire  of  the  modern  militaristic  German 
to  rule  and  control  the  world  by  force.  Wagner  depicts 
a  prehistoric  world  in  which  the  gods  of  greed,  lust,  and 
power  rule,  carrying,  however,  the  seed  of  their  own  de¬ 
struction  within  them  because  of  the  materialistic  qual- 


262 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


ity  of  their  desires.  As  their  power  wanes  and  the  old 
gods  perish,  a  new  religion  is  born,  the  religion  of  self- 
sacrifice  through  love,  as  symbolized  by  Brunhilde  in  her 
self-immolation  on  the  funeral  pyre  of  Siegfried. 

But  all  this  is  already  ancient  history,  and  I  for  one 
confidently  believe  that  the  racial  spirit  which  created 
the  Germany  of  Bach,  Beethoven,  Goethe,  Kant,  and 
Wagner  will  soon  return  again  to  brighten  and  ennoble 
the  world. 

In  five  weeks  all  necessary  arrangements  for  the  school 
were  completed  and  notices  were  sent  by  the  General 
Staff  to  the  bandmasters  of  the  entire  A.  E.  F.  who  had 
not  come  up  to  the  necessary  qualifications  during  the 
examination  which  I  had  given  them,  to  report  to  the 
Chaumont  School  in  batches  of  fifty  every  eight  weeks, 
beginning  on  October  1,  and  to  start  their  studies.  Stu¬ 
dents  for  oboe,  bassoon,  French  horn,  and  fliigelhorn 
were  also  selected  from  the  hundreds  of  applicants.  At 
first  we  had  great  difficulty  in  finding  the  necessary  in¬ 
struments  for  them.  France  is  famous  for  its  wood-wind 
instruments,  but  the  various  factories  had  long  since 
ceased  operations,  as  all  the  workmen  were  in  the  army. 
The  ever-ready  and  ingenious  Lieutenant  Weill,  however, 
succeeded  in  scraping  together  enough  oboes  and  bas¬ 
soons  to  start  the  classes,  and  I  cannot  say  enough  for 
the  willing  assistance  which  was  accorded  me  by  every 
United  States  army  officer  with  whom  I  came  in  con¬ 
tact.  From  the  commander-in-chief  down  to  Lieutenant 
Kelley,  who  sat  in  the  anteroom  of  General  Dawes’s  of¬ 
fice  in  the  Champs-filysees,  and  whose  principal  duty 
seemed  to  be  to  ward  off  disagreeable  or  tiresome  callers 
who  wished  to  rob  General  Dawes  of  his  valuable  time, 
all  made  me  feel  as  if  the  improvement  of  the  army  bands 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


263 


was  the  one  thing  necessary  to  win  the  war.  It  was  high 
time  for  me  to  leave  France  and  “get  back  to  earth/’  as 
I  no  longer  walked  on  anything  but  air  and  with  my  head 
projecting  far  above  the  clouds. 

During  my  last  visit  to  Chaumont  I  motored  down  to 
Domremy,  the  birthplace  of  Jeanne  d’Arc,  and  found  the 
little  village  in  just  about  the  same  state  it  must  have 
been  when  she  was  born  in  the  little  house  next  to  the 
church,  both  of  which  have  been  carefully  preserved  for 
the  worshippers  of  to-day.  The  open  space  in  front  of 
her  house,  the  trees  surrounding  it,  and  the  monument 
in  the  centre  seemed  to  me  to  form  a  natural  stage  on 
which  a  peace  pageant  could  well  be  enacted,  and  as  I 
sat  there  and  the  bell  began  to  toll  from  the  little  church 
in  which  Jeanne  had  whispered  her  prayers,  I  began  to 
dream  of  a  possible  peace  celebration  in  which  a  company 
of  American  soldiers,  a  company  of  French  soldiers,  an 
American  and  a  French  military  band,  singers  from  the 
Opera  Comique,  and  a  children’s  chorus  should  take  part; 
the  climax  to  be  the  joyous  meeting  of  the  military  forces 
around  the  monument  and  the  awakening  of  Jeanne  from 
her  sleep  of  centuries,  opening  the  door  of  her  little  house 
and  standing  there  looking  with  astonishment  at  the 
unwonted  sight  of  American  soldiers  in  khaki  as  brothers 
of  her  beloved  countrymen. 

On  my  return  to  Chaumont  I  outlined  this  idea  to 
several  officers  of  the  Staff  and  of  the  French  Commission, 
who  received  it  with  enthusiasm  and  promised  every  as¬ 
sistance,  but,  alas,  nothing  ever  came  of  it.  When  I 
returned  to  France  the  following  spring  the  armistice 
had  been  arranged  and  the  Versailles  Conference  was 
dragging  its  weary  and  dreary  deliberations  toward  an 
unsatisfactory  conclusion.  There  did  not  seem  to  be 


264 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


enough  illusion  or  enthusiasm  left  to  celebrate  anything 
international  connected  with  the  war. 

On  my  last  visit  to  Chaumont  I  gave  a  little  dinner  to 
Colonel  Collins,  secretary  of  the  Staff,  whose  constant 
interest  had  been  invaluable  and  whose  mind  seemed  to 
be  capable  at  a  moment’s  notice  of  turning  from  the  con¬ 
sideration  of  some  intricate  military  problem  to  the  great 
advantages  to  be  derived  from  the  introduction  of  the 
French  B-flat  bugle  into  our  army.  Over  a  very  good 
magnum  of  champagne  I  rose  and  made  him,  Colonel 
Boyd,  and  Lieutenant  Weill  solemnly  swear  that  for  the 
rest  of  the  war  and  as  long  thereafter  as  necessary  the 
bandmaster’s  school  at  Chaumont  should  be  to  them  as 
the  apple  of  their  eye,  and  this  oath  they  faithfully  kept. 
The  school  flourished  from  October,  1918,  until  June, 
1919,  when  it  was  discontinued  owing  to  the  return  of  our 
army  to  America.  The  relations  between  the  French 
professors  and  our  boys,  ah  living  together  like  a  happy 
family,  became  so  sympathetic  and  intimate  that  the 
results  may  truly  be  said  to  have  been  remarkable.  The 
soldiers  realized  that  they  were  receiving  an  education  in 
music  equal  to  that  of  the  foremost  schools  of  France  or 
America,  and  the  French  professors  entered  into  their 
duties  with  an  enthusiasm  which  was  touching.  Casa- 
desus  told  me  that  many  of  his  pupils  worked  at  their 
musical  problems  twelve  hours  a  day  and  I  urged  him, 
in  some  way  or  other,  to  continue  these  pleasant  and  im¬ 
portant  international  musical  relations  by  founding  a 
summer  school  somewhere  in  France,  preferably  near 
Paris,  to  which  American  men  and  women,  already  suf¬ 
ficiently  advanced  in  their  study  of  music,  could  repair 
for  three  months  every  summer  in  order  to  acquaint 
themselves  with  French  art  and  French  methods  of 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


265 


teaching.  Until  the  war  began,  hundreds  of  American 
students  had  gone  to  Germany  every  year,  and  it  seemed 
a  pity  that,  owing  to  the  Frenchman’s  lack  of  propaganda 
for  what  his  country  could  offer  to  our  students,  some  of 
this  stream  could  not  be  diverted  to  France.  Our  talks 
eventually  led  to  the  founding  of  the  Conservatoire  Ame- 
ricain  at  Fontainebleau,  of  which  details  are  told  in 
another  chapter. 

By  the  courtesy  of  General  Pershing  I  received  per¬ 
mission  to  leave  for  home  on  the  army  transport  America. 
This  ship  sailed  from  Brest,  and  I  was  anxious  to  go  there 
in  order  to  see  my  daughter,  Alice  Pennington,  once  more. 
She  and  her  friend,  Miss  Letty  McKim,  had  been  there 
for  a  year  and  had  founded  the  naval  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  to  the 
great  satisfaction  of  Admiral  Wilson  and  our  navy 
stationed  there.  My  daugther’s  enthusiasm  and  vitality, 
together  with  that  of  her  equally  able  friend,  had  created 
an  atmosphere  which  our  sailors  greatly  relished,  and  I 
was  keen  to  see  some  of  her  work. 

My  train  was  to  leave  Paris  in  the  evening,  and  my  faith¬ 
ful  friend  and  companion  of  the  last  five  weeks,  Lieuten¬ 
ant  Weill,  came  to  the  station  to  bid  me  good-by.  There 
were  no  regular  sleeping-cars  on  this  train  but  only  what 
the  French  call  “ couchettes” — four  bunks  in  each  com¬ 
partment,  two  on  each  side.  The  names  of  the  occupants 
were  carefully  written  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  pasted  on 
the  outside  of  each  door,  and  Lieutenant  Weill  informed 
me  that  a  French  general  occupied  the  lower  bunk  op¬ 
posite  mine.  Sure  enough,  a  handsome,  youngish-look¬ 
ing  general  presently  appeared  and,  politely  touching 
his  cap,  entered  our  compartment  and  seated  himself  in 
his  bunk.  Weill,  in  French  fashion,  kissed  me  good-by 
on  both  cheeks,  and  as  I  had  still  ten  minutes  to  spare,  I 


266 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


stood  outside  and  saw  an  American  naval  commander 
coming  toward  me  with  rather  unsteady  steps.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  had  thirty-six  hours’  leave  and  that  he  and 
his  two  aides  had  decided  to  spend  it  by  going  to  Paris.  As 
the  train  took  twelve  hours  each  way  this  gave  them  only 
twelve  hours  in  the  city  of  delights  and  he  had  evidently 
taken  full  advantage  of  every  minute  of  it.  He  told  me 
that  his  two  aides  had  not  yet  turned  up,  that  they  had 
all  the  tickets  and  all  his  money;  he  also  confided  to  me 
that  one  of  them  was  so  rich  that  he  could  have  bought 
the  entire  train.  I  finally  found  his  name  on  the  list  of 
our  coupe,  his  bunk  being  directly  over  the  French 
general’s,  and  as  it  was  getting  late,  I  advised  him  to 
enter.  Just  at  that  moment  two  handsome  young  naval 
lieutenants  rushed  up,  and  he  received  them  with  en¬ 
thusiasm,  for  they  had  his  railroad  tickets.  I  helped  him 
into  our  compartment,  where  he  presently  sat  down  right 
next  to  the  general,  who  wrapped  his  cloak  about  him 
and  cuddled  up  into  his  own  corner.  I  said  to  my  com¬ 
patriot:  “l  think  you  are  in  the  French  general’s  bunk. 
Yours  is  the  one  above.”  Whereupon  he  said:  “The 
French  general  can  go  to  hell !”  I  was  frightened  out  of 
my  wits,  as  I  expected  an  immediate  international  en¬ 
counter  which  might  have  the  most  serious  consequences. 
Luckily  the  general  understood  no  English,  and  I  finally 
induced  my  new  naval  friend  to  climb  up  into  his  own 
bunk,  but  I  made  a  solemn  vow  that  I  would  never  again 
try  to  interfere  where  the  army  and  navy  of  two  different 
countries  were  concerned. 

I  turned  into  my  own  bunk  and  slept  well  until  next 
morning,  when  I  found  the  commander  also  awake  and 
possessed  of  a  thirst  which  knew  no  bounds.  There  was, 
of  course,  no  drinking-water  on  the  train,  but  I  rushed 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


267 


him  to  the  restaurant  of  the  next  station  where  we 
stopped,  and  he  seized  a  carafe  of  water  and  put  it  to  his 
lips  with  such  avidity  that  you  could  almost  hear  the 
water  sizzle  as  it  passed  down  his  throat.  He  turned  out 
to  be  a  delightful  fellow.  He  was  commander  of  a  de¬ 
stroyer  and  had  spent  dreary  and  terrible  weeks  in  his 
little  craft  watching  for  submarines.  The  monotony  and 
discomfort  of  such  a  life  cannot  be  imagined,  as  these 
ships  are  so  small  that  their  motion  is  incessant  and  they 
have  to  go  out  in  the  dirtiest  of  weather.  There  is  hardly 
ever  a  chance  to  cook  meals,  and  those  on  board  must  eat 
what  and  how  they  can.  For  weeks  and  weeks  nothing 
happens,  but  my  commander  had  had  the  good  luck  on 
his  last  trip  to  get  a  sub,  and  had  received  his  thirty-six 
hours’  leave  in  consequence.  Small  wonder  that  he  and  his 
colleagues  sought  some  relief  in  honor  of  the  great  event ! 

At  the  next  station  my  French  general  and  I  got  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Sugar  was  at  that  time  taboo,  and  as,  thanks 
to  my  army  friends,  I  had  my  pockets  full  of  this  precious 
stuff,  I  offered  him  some  in  place  of  the  awful  saccharine, 
which  he  accepted  gratefully  and  then  told  me  that  he  was 
going  on  his  first  vacation  in  two  years  to  spend  with  his 
family  in  a  little  watering  resort  this  side  of  Brest.  Sure 
enough  at  the  next  station,  as  he  got  out,  a  charming  boy 
and  girl,  browned  by  the  sun,  rushed  up  to  him  and  fairly 
smothered  him  with  kisses.  It  looked  for  all  the  world 
like  a  scene  at  a  Long  Island  station  in  August,  when  the 
various  New  York  fathers  commute  on  a  Friday  afternoon 
to  spend  Saturday  and  Sunday  with  their  families  by  the 
sea. 

I  found  my  daughter  Alice  waiting  for  me  at  the  sta¬ 
tion  in  Brest,  and  on  the  way  to  the  little  apartment 
which  she  and  Miss  McKim  occupied  together,  she  told 


268 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


me  that  Admiral  Wilson  wanted  to  meet  me  before  my 
departure  on  the  transport  the  same  evening.  She 
begged  me  to  support  her  if  he  denounced  jazz  music, 
against  which  he  had  a  particular  hatred,  for  she  had 
always  insisted  to  him  that  the  sailors  loved  it  and  that 
in  time  of  war  they  certainly  should  have  anything  they 
wanted. 

In  the  afternoon  the  admiral’s  band  gave  a  concert  in 
the  public  square,  and  I,  of  course,  attended  it  and  met 
the  bandmaster  and  his  players,  who  did  very  good  work, 
several  of  them  having  been  members  of  the  Boston  Sym¬ 
phony  Orchestra.  They  begged  me  to  conduct  them  in 
one  of  the  numbers,  and  I  took  up  the  stick  and  solemnly 
played  through  the  “William  Tell  Overture”  with  them. 
At  the  end  I  saw  Admiral  Wilson  on  the  balcony  of  his 
apartment  applauding  vociferously,  and  he  presently 
came  running,  bareheaded,  across  the  square  to  greet 
me.  Almost  the  first  thing  he  said  was:  “Doctor,  don’t 
you  think  jazz  music  is  horrible?  It  destroys  all  taste 
for  real  music.”  “Indeed  I  heartily  agree  with  you,”  I 
answered.  Whereupon  my  daughter  Alice  turned  on  me 
and  said,  “Coward  !”  implying  that  as  the  admiral  was  the 
autocrat  of  Brest  I  did  not  wish  to  brave  his  wrath  even 
in  order  to  please  my  daughter.  But  indeed  I  was  thor¬ 
oughly  in  accord  with  him;  and  I  wish  that  either  some 
popular  substitute  could  be  found  for  the  interminable 
jazz  that  is  ravaging  not  only  our  country  but  all  Eu¬ 
rope,  or  that  a  genius  would  come  along  who  would  pour 
into  this  very  low  form  of  art  some  real  emotion  which, 
welling  from  the  very  heart  of  man,  might  give  life  to 
what  is  at  present  but  a  nervous  excitement. 

That  evening  I  went  on  board  the  transport  America, 
and  sailed  for  home.  I  found  the  voyage  exceedingly  in- 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


269 


teresting.  The  ship  had  been  a  Hamburg  passenger 
liner,  the  Amerika,  taken  over  after  her  internment  by  our 
navy;  the  “k”  having  been  carefully  removed  and  an 
American  “c”  substituted.  Various  German  signs  had 
been  scratched  out,  but  the  table  and  bed  linen,  as  well 
as  the  knives  and  forks,  still  bore  the  mystic  initials, 
H.  A.  P.  A .  G. — Hamburg  Amerika  Paketjahrt  Actien 
Gesellschaft. 

I  was  the  proud  occupant  of  a  cabin  and  bathroom  of 
the  so-called  “Roosevelt”  suite,  which  the  ex-President 
had  occupied  during  his  trip  around  the  world,  and  the 
faucets  over  the  bathtub  still  bore  the  signs  “Kalt,” 
“Warm,”  and  “Gemischt.”  The  various  luxurious  fur¬ 
nishings  of  the  ship  showed  the  wear  and  tear  of  army- 
transport  usage.  The  marble  was  cracked  and  the  elec¬ 
tric  bells  did  not  ring. 

The  first-class  cabins  were  occupied  by  several  hundred 
officers,  a  curious  mixture  of  men,  some  returning  on 
leave  or  to  become  instructors  in  the  officers’  camps,  or 
being  mustered  out  of  service,  either  for  ill  health, 
drunkenness,  or  incompetence.  For  days  I  was  pursued, 
even  into  my  cabin,  by  a  man  from  a  Western  city  who 
had  enlisted  as  a  dentist.  He  was  evidently  out  of  his 
mind  and  was  to  be  mustered  out  of  the  service  on  his 
return  home.  He  had  conceived  the  mysterious  idea  that 
I  could  influence  the  powers  that  be  to  have  him  rein¬ 
stated,  and  I  finally  found  the  glitter  in  his  eye  so  omi¬ 
nous  that  I  reported  him  to  the  colonel  in  command  and 
he  promptly  had  him  put  under  medical  observation. 
Two  days  later  his  companions  in  the  hospital  ward,  whom 
he  had  already  annoyed  and  frightened  by  suddenly 
grabbing  their  legs  at  night,  found  him  in  the  bathroom 
with  his  throat  partly  cut  by  his  razor;  and  I  confess  that 


270 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


I  was  glad  when  I  heard  that  he  had  been  put  into  a 
cabin  by  himself,  with  a  soldier  guarding  the  door. 

We  were,  of  course,  under  army  regulations  and  in 
many  respects  life  was  much  stricter  than  on  the  passenger 
liners.  We  were  compelled  to  wear  life-preservers  almost 
the  entire  voyage  and  no  lights  were  permitted  after 
sundown.  We  were  not  told  at  which  American  port  we 
were  to  land,  and  I  was  much  astonished  one  morning  to 
find  our  ship  anchored  in  Boston  Harbor  alongside  the  old 
1812  frigate  Constitution,  whose  broadside-guns  looked 
delightfully  picturesque  and  inefficient  compared  with  the 
modern  monsters  I  had  seen  in  France. 

During  the  following  winter  my  wife  and  I  often  re¬ 
ceived  visits  from  navy  officers  and  sailors  bearing  greet¬ 
ings  from  our  daughter  Alice  in  Brest,  and  I  remember 
one  red-cheeked  youngster  who  made  so  agreeable  an 
impression  on  my  wife  that  she  invited  him  to  return  the 
following  day,  which  was  Sunday,  for  luncheon.  On  that 
morning  the  telephone  rang.  It  was  our  old  friend, 
Admiral  William  Rodgers,  who  asked  whether  he  could 
come  to  luncheon.  My  wife  said  we  would  be  delighted, 
but  my  youngest  daughter  Anita,  who  was  well  versed  in 
the  etiquette  of  the  navy,  called  out:  “Oh,  we  can’t  have 
the  admiral  lunching  with  us  to-day.  An  admiral  can’t  sit 
down  at  the  same  table  with  a  gob !”  My  wife  repeated 
this  to  the  admiral,  who  insisted  that  it  made  no  difference 
and  that  in  war  time  everything  was  possible;  that  he 
certainly  wanted  to  come  and  would  be  very  glad  to  meet 
the  “gob”  who  had  brought  greetings  from  Alice,  of  whom 
he  was  very  fond.  The  sailor  boy  arrived  first,  and  when 
we  told  him  that  our  other  guest  was  to  be  an  admiral 
he  grew  pale  as  death,  but  when  Rodgers  arrived  he  was 
so  kind  to  the  boy  that  luncheon  passed  off  fairly  well, 


THE  GREAT  WAR 


271 


except  that  the  boy  became  rigid  at  attention  whenever 
the  admiral  spoke  to  him.  During  the  luncheon  Admiral 
Rodgers  said  to  him:  “You  have  just  seen  Mrs.  Penning¬ 
ton  in  Brest ?”  “Yes,  sir.”  “And  what  was  she  doing 
when  you  saw  her?”  “She  was  selling  postage-stamps, 
sir,”  was  the  answer.  And  I  have  no  doubt  this  was  true, 
as  Alice  in  her  capacity  of  naval  “Y”  worker  not  only 
took  the  sailors  out  to  picnics  with  swimming  contests, 
arranged  vaudeville  entertainments  and  concerts,  but  in 
between  times  sold  them  chocolate,  cigarettes,  postage- 
stamps,  picture  postal-cards,  lemon-drops,  and  ginger  ale. 

After  luncheon  my  daughters  discreetly  took  the  young 
sailor  into  the  front  parlor  in  order  to  relieve  the  tension 
a  little,  and  Rodgers  asked  me  about  an  orchestration  of 
the  “Star-Spangled  Banner”  which  I  had  made  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war  and  which  had  aroused  some  atten¬ 
tion.  I  had  always  felt  that  this  good  old  English  tune 
had  a  fine  ring  to  it,  provided  it  was  played  in  the  proper 
tempo,  and  I  had  given  it  an  orchestration  which  developed 
into  quite  a  climax  on  the  last  two  lines  of  each  verse. 
I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  it  for  him,  explaining 
the  difference  between  this  version  and  the  old  one  which 
had  been  generally  used  before  the  war.  He  was  much 
interested  and  wanted  to  introduce  it  in  the  navy. 

The  sailor  boy  finally  took  his  departure,  and  my 
daughters  came  smiling  into  the  music-room  and  told  us 
that  while  they  were  sitting  talking  with  the  sailor,  he 
suddenly  jumped  up  from  his  chair  and  stood  at  rigid 
attention.  He  had  heard  the  strains  of  the  national  an¬ 
them  coming  from  our  room  and,  remembering  the  ad¬ 
miral,  knew  his  duty !  Who  shall,  after  that,  deny  the 
power  of  music  in  peace  or  in  war? 


XVI 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 

In  the  spring  of  1919  I  received  a  letter  from  M.  La- 
fere,  then  Ministre  des  Beaux  Arts  in  France,  which  inter¬ 
ested  the  directors  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Society 
and  myself  exceedingly.  In  this  letter  he  referred  to  the 
services  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra  and  my¬ 
self  to  French  art  in  America  and  invited  us  to  make  a 
professional  visit  to  France  the  following  year.  He  prom¬ 
ised  every  assistance  from  the  French  Government  and 
assured  us  of  a  warm  welcome. 

Mr.  Flagler  immediately  decided  that  this  invitation 
must  be  accepted  inasmuch  as  it  was  the  first  time  a  for¬ 
eign  government  had  extended  such  a  courtesy  to  an 
American  musical  organization.  He  also  thought  that 
our  visit  coming  so  soon  after  the  war  and  including 
possibly  the  countries  of  the  other  allies  in  the  war,  such 
as  Belgium,  Italy,  and  England,  would  not  only  make  a 
good  impression  but  would  help  to  establish  musical  rela¬ 
tions  with  Europe  on  a  more  equal  basis.  Up  till  then 
the  current  had  been  all  the  other  way.  European  singers 
and  instrumentalists  had  been  coming  to  America  in  a 
steady  stream  for  many  years,  but  in  the  meantime 
America  had  developed  several  orchestras  of  her  own 
which  could  compare  favorably  with  those  of  Europe; 
and  he  was  very  proud  that  the  organization  of  which  he 
was  president  and  supporter  should  have  been  singled  out 
for  so  great  an  honor  and  opportunity. 

272 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


273 


I  sailed  for  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1919  to  confer  with 
the  Beaux  Arts  about  arrangements  for  our  visit  to  Paris 
and  other  cities  in  France,  and  at  the  same  time  I  also  re¬ 
ceived  invitations  from  the  governments  of  Belgium  and 
Italy  to  visit  their  countries  with  the  orchestra.  In  Lon¬ 
don  Augustus  Littleton,  the  publisher,  head  of  the  old 
house  of  Novello  &  Co.,  also  received  me  very  cordially 
and  insisted  that  our  visit  to  Europe  would  not  be  com¬ 
plete  if  we  did  not  include  London.  As  England,  like 
our  country,  has  no  Ministry  of  Fine  Arts  and  can  there¬ 
fore  take  no  official  cognizance  of  musical  affairs,  he 
immediately  and  energetically  set  to  work  to  form  a 
committee  of  invitation,  headed  by  King  George  and 
composed  of  all  the  foremost  composers  and  conductors 
of  Great  Britain. 

Affairs  began  to  shape  themselves  very  favorably,  and 
our  manager,  Mr.  George  Engels,  began  to  map  out  a 
tour  of  seven  weeks,  during  which  we  were  to  visit  five 
countries  and  play,  in  all,  twenty-seven  concerts.  But 
in  the  meantime  foreign  exchange  sank  lower  and  lower 
and  reports  of  transportation  conditions  in  Europe  were  so 
gloomy  that  I  began  to  be  seriously  doubtful  of  the  possi¬ 
bility  of  the  proposed  tour  in  the  spring  of  1920.  I  finally 
decided  in  January  to  send  our  manager  to  Europe  per¬ 
sonally  to  look  over  the  ground,  and  at  the  same  time  I 
expressed  my  fears  to  Mr.  Flagler. 

I  told  him  that  we  would  have  to  pay  enormous  sums 
for  travelling  expenses,  the  item  of  steamer  passage  alone 
amounting  to  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and  that  while  we 
would  have  to  pay  our  orchestra  salaries  in  American 
dollars,  our  receipts  in  Europe  would  be  in  francs,  lire, 
etc.  The  dollar  was  then  selling  for  seventeen  francs  in 
France  and  for  twenty-three  lire  in  Italy.  I  suggested 


274 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


to  him  to  postpone  the  tour  until  a  time  when  war-torn 
Europe  would  be  economically  in  a  better  condition  and 
when  her  transportation  system  would  again  be  more 
nearly  on  a  pre-war  basis. 

Mr.  Flagler  listened  to  me  and  said:  “I  do  not  see  how 
we  can  possibly  postpone  the  acceptance  of  these  official 
invitations  from  four  countries  to  a  later  period.  Now  is 
the  psychological  moment  to  do  it.  How  much  do  you 
think  the  tour  will  cost?” 

I  had  made  a  kind  of  general  calculation  and  mentioned 
the  amount,  which  seemed  to  me  large. 

“ Isn’t  that  curious?”  he  answered.  “That  is  exactly 
what  I  thought  it  would  cost.  Go  right  ahead  with  your 
preparations.” 

I  was  naturally  delighted  at  his  decision.  I  knew  that 
American  orchestras  had  achieved  a  perfection  of  en¬ 
semble  which  but  few,  if  any,  European  orchestras  could 
equal.  I  was  proud  of  our  organization  and  anxious  to 
demonstrate  it  as  a  standard  of  American  musical  culture. 

The  members  of  the  orchestra  were  wild  with  excite¬ 
ment  at  the  marvellous  news.  Many  of  them  had  been 
born  in  America  and  had  never  seen  Europe.  It  was  the 
wonderland  of  their  imagination.  Others  had  been  there 
as  soldiers  during  the  war,  and  still  others  had  left  Eu¬ 
rope  years  before  to  found  their  fortunes  and  families  in 
the  New  World  and  had  not  been  back  since.  They  im¬ 
mediately  appointed  a  committee  to  agree  upon  a  mini¬ 
mum  salary  schedule  which,  while  giving  them  a  fair 
recompense  for  their  time,  would  yet  make  that  part  of 
it  not  too  difficult  for  us.  To  this  sum,  however,  Mr. 
Flagler  later  added  ten  dollars  a  week  more  for  each 
player,  as  he  thought  that  their  hotel  expenses  might  be 
greater  than  we  had  calculated. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


275 


The  managerial  work  of  constructing  the  tour  was  be¬ 
set  with  many  difficulties,  as  the  war  had  disorganized 
many  of  the  regular  concert  organizations  in  Europe 
under  whose  auspices  we  would  have  played  under 
normal  conditions.  The  railroads,  also,  made  much 
slower  time  than  formerly.  But  gradually  the  tour  began 
to  assume  shape  and  the  first  concert  was  scheduled  to 
be  given  on  May  6  at  the  Grand  Opera  in  Paris,  which 
the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts  had  offered  to  us,  and  the 
last  concert  at  the  Royal  Albert  Hall  in  London  on 
June  20.  In  order  that  this  tour  might  be  representa¬ 
tive  in  every  way  of  the  best  in  American  music,  Mr. 
Flagler  suggested  that  we  take  along  two  young  Amer¬ 
ican-born  soloists  of  distinction — Albert  Spalding,  violin¬ 
ist,  and  John  Powell,  composer-pianist.  I  immediately 
set  to  work  to  prepare  a  series  of  appropriate  programmes 
which  should  serve  the  double  purpose  of  demonstrating 
the  fine  qualities  of  our  orchestra  and  soloists,  and  also 
pay  proper  tribute  to  the  great  composers  of  the  coun¬ 
tries  we  proposed  to  visit. 

We  were  to  open  with  three  concerts  in  Paris,  and  as  I 
was  conversant  with  all  the  details  in  connection  with 
Paris  especially,  I  preceded  the  orchestra  and  arrived 
there  April  22.  At  my  hotel,  the  “France  et  ChoiseuI,”  I 
found  a  letter  from  my  old  friend,  Robert  Underwood 
Johnson,  who  had  just  left  Paris  to  go  to  Rome  as  Amer¬ 
ican  ambassador  to  Italy.  He  said: 

Dear  Walter: 

It  is  pleasant  to  think  that,  within  a  few  days,  you  will  be  occupy¬ 
ing  the  “ambassadorial  suite”  in  which  I  am  writing  these  lines  (Davis 
of  London  had  it  also).  We  leave  day  after  tomorrow  and  shall  be 
very  happy  to  see  you  all  when  you  come  to  Rome.  We  are  looking 
forward  with  pride  and  agreeable  anticipation  to  the  invasion  of 


276 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Italy  by  the  Symphony  and  its  director  and  the  assisting  artists. 
We  have  no  Embassy,  alas !  being  “all  dressed  up  (or  nearly  so)  with 
no  place  to  go  to”  and  so  we  shall  slum  it  at  the  Grand  Hotel  until  the 
money  seems  to  be  giving  out. 

Don’t  let  any  of  your  party  perish  by  stumbling  over  the  torn 
carpet  at  the  entrance  to  this  apartment.  I  have  tried  to  have  it 
mended,  but  my  failure  shows  that  I  am  no  diplomat — yet. 

Au  revoir.  Bientot  a  Rome. 

My  first  act  was  to  have  that  carpet  mended,  and  I 
immediately  sent  a  telegram  to  the  American  Embassy 
in  Rome  announcing  the  important  news.  And  then  the 
affairs  of  the  tour  began  to  engulf  me  to  such  an  extent 
that  until  Mr.  Engles  arrived  and  relieved  me  with  able 
hands  of  a  great  deal  of  that  burden,  I  thought  that  I  was 
back  again  in  the  old  days  of  the  Damrosch  Opera  Com¬ 
pany,  when  I  was  owner,  director,  orchestral  conductor, 
stage-manager,  and  prima  donna  pacificator  all  in  one. 

To  add  to  my  worries,  a  railroad  strike  was  announced 
for  May  1 ,  the  day  on  which  the  orchestra  were  to  arrive 
at  Le  Havre,  and  not  content  with  that,  the  dock  work¬ 
ers  of  Le  Havre  intended  also  to  lay  down  their  “tools, 99 
whatever  they  may  be,  and  stop  working  on  that  date. 
When  I  thought  of  the  musical  instruments  and  trunks 
of  my  orchestra  in  the  hold  of  the  steamer  Rochambeau, 
which  was  to  arrive  on  or  about  May  1 ,  my  heart  stopped 
beating.  However,  I  had  been  in  too  many  close  shaves 
on  my  great  Western  orchestral  tours  to  be  altogether 
dismayed,  for  even  if  the  railroad  stopped  running  there 
would  always  be  motor-trucks  and  airplanes.  We  had 
made  arrangements  with  Thomas  Cook  and  Sons  to  take 
care  of  all  transportation  matters  from  the  day  the  or¬ 
chestra  arrived  in  France  until  their  sailing  for  home  from 
England,  and  they  assured  me  that,  if  necessary,  they 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


277 


would  have  camions,  such  as  were  used  during  the  war, 
to  carry  my  whole  orchestra,  together  with  their  baggage 
and  musical  instruments,  from  Le  Havre  to  Paris. 

Luckily  the  ship  docked  several  hours  before  the 
dock  workers’  strike  began,  and  double  basses,  kettle¬ 
drums,  and  innumerable  music  boxes  were  safely  landed 
from  the  hold  of  the  ship.  I  had  intended  to  go  to  Le 
Havre  to  meet  the  orchestra,  but  the  strike  conditions 
were  too  uncertain  and  I  thought  it  better  to  remain  in 
Paris  and  direct  operations  from  there. 

The  government  was  moving  several  trains,  and  the 
telegram  that  the  orchestra  had  started  for  Paris  cheered 
me  up  considerably.  I  was  at  the  station  at  3.30  that 
afternoon,  to  be  met  with  the  news  that  the  train  was 
delayed  and  would  be  in  at  six.  At  six  there  was  no 
sign  of  it,  and,  as  is  usual  at  French  stations,  there  was 
absolutely  no  one  who  had  any  idea  when  it  might  arrive. 
I  stayed  there  till  eight  o’clock — no  train.  Finally  there 
was  a  whistle.  Every  one  dashed  out.  It  was  a  freight- 
train,  but,  like  the  dove  from  Noah’s  Ark,  I  saw  the  “man 
from  Cook’s,”  a  little  man,  attired  then  and  during  the 
entire  tour  in  a  very  small  derby  hat  and  an  exceedingly 
long  double-breasted  frock  coat,  sitting  on  top  of  one  of 
the  cars.  He  was  tired,  dirty,  but  triumphant,  for  all 
our  musical  instruments  and  music  boxes  were  in  these 
cars.  He  had  passed  the  orchestra  half-way  at  Rouen, 
where  they  were  held  up  by  a  hot  box.  This  sounded 
like  home  to  me,  as  I  had  heard  those  magic  words  only 
too  often  when  our  train,  coming  through  Idaho  or  Ari¬ 
zona  on  our  way  to  or  from  California,  would  be  held  up 
for  hours  and  we  would  wonder  whether  we  could  “make” 
the  concert  that  evening. 

The  orchestra  had  rehearsed  our  repertoire  with  me  so 


278 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


/ 


thoroughly  before  we  sailed  that  but  little  more  was 
necessary.  I  gave  them  three  rehearsals,  however,  before 
our  first  concert,  the  first  two  at  the  Salle  du  Conserva¬ 
toire,  to  shake  them  together  again  after  their  long  voy¬ 
age,  and  the  last  on  the  afternoon  of  the  concert,  May  6, 
at  the  Opera  House  in  order  to  accustom  them  to  its 
acoustics.  The  orchestra  played  so  superbly  at  the  two 
first  rehearsals  that  I  was  jubilant  and  proud  of  them. 
The  ensemble  was  perfect  and  each  man  played  as  if  the 
success  of  the  concert  depended  on  him — which  it  cer¬ 
tainly  did.  But  when  we  began  rehearsing  at  the  Opera 
House  the  tone  of  the  orchestra  suddenly  seemed  so  thin 
and  lifeless  that  I  was  nearly  beside  myself  with  anxiety. 
The  orchestra  was  placed  on  the  stage,  but  the  local 
management  had  not  seen  fit  to  provide  us  with  any 
proper  scenic  setting  or  roof,  so  that  the  sound  of  our 
large  and  noble  orchestra  was  completely  dissipated  in 
the  flies.  When  I  remonstrated,  I  was  told  that  they 
had  a  roof  for  the  stage  but  that  it  was  in  the  storehouse, 
situated  beyond  the  fortifications  of  Paris,  and  that  this 
was  the  first  time  in  many  years  the  Opera  House  had 
been  used  for  a  concert.  They  finally  agreed  to  have  at 
least  half  a  roof  up  for  our  concert  and  to  set  a  smaller 
scene,  which  would  contain  the  sound  and  throw  it 
into  the  audience-room  in  more  compact  fashion.  After 
twenty  minutes  or  so  of  rehearsing,  I  threw  down  my 
stick  and  told  the  men  to  call  it  a  day.  I  went  back  to 
my  hotel  very  depressed,  as  so  much  depended  on  the  first 
impression  which  our  orchestra  would  make  that  evening. 

The  programme  was  as  follows: 


1.  Overture,  “Benvenuto  Cellini” . Berlioz 

2.  Symphony  No.  3,  “Eroica” . Beethoven 

3.  “Istar,”  Variations  symphoniques . d’Indy 

4.  “  Daphnis  et  Chloe”  (Fragments  symphoniques) . Ravel 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


279 


The  reader  will  notice  that  we  placed  on  it  two  works 
by  living  French  composers,  both  of  whom  were  to  be 
at  the  concert.  The  house  was  completely  sold  out,  and 
greeted  me  in  very  friendly  fashion  when  I  came  on  the 
stage. 

From  the  very  first  chords  of  the  “Eroica”  Symphony, 
I  noticed  that  the  slight  improvements  in  our  scenic  sur¬ 
roundings,  and  above  all  the  fact  that  the  house  was 
filled  with  people,  had  acted  like  magic  on  the  acoustics. 
The  tone  of  the  orchestra  had  become  full,  clear,  and  in¬ 
cisive.  My  spirits  rose  and  I  forgot  everything  except 
the  orchestra  before  me  and  Beethoven’s  score.  After 
each  movement  the  applause  was  deafening,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  symphony  there  was  joyous  shouting  from  the 
galleries.  We  seemed  to  have  played  our  way  into  their 
hearts,  and  after  the  first  part  there  was  a  steady  stream 
of  French  musicians  to  my  dressing-room  to  congratulate 
me  on  our  marvellous  orchestra  and  its  ensemble,  and  to 
express  their  delight  that  we  had  come  over  on  such  a 
friendly  mission.  Among  them  were:  Vincent  d’Indy, 
Gabriel  Faure,  Andre  Messager,  Gabriel  Pierne,  Theo¬ 
dore  Dubois,  Paul  Vidal,  Nadia  Boulanger,  and  many 
others. 

As  we  turned  into  the  French  part  of  our  programme 
the  enthusiasm  became  still  greater,  and  at  the  conclu¬ 
sion  of  “Istar”  some  of  my  first  violins  discovered  the 
composer,  d’lndy,  in  the  audience  and,  pointing  toward 
him,  stood  up  to  applaud.  In  a  minute  not  only  the 
whole  orchestra  but  the  audience  were  on  their  feet 
and  with  loud  cries  of  “Auteur!”  “dTndy!”  the  house 
was  in  an  uproar  until  d’lndy,  his  face  as  red  as  a  beet, 
was  compelled  to  rise  and  acknowledge  this  tribute. 

The  programme  finished  with  the  marvellous  “Daphnis 


280 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


et  Chloe,”  by  Ravel,  in  which  the  luscious  tone  of  the 
orchestra  and  its  virtuosity  demonstrated  themselves  so 
successfully  that  not  only  did  the  concert  come  to  a  tu¬ 
multuous  climax,  but  several  of  the  French  papers  an¬ 
nounced  afterward  that  this  work  had  never  had  such  a 
vivid  and  perfect  rendering  before. 

My  interpretation  of  the  Beethoven  “Eroica”  Sym¬ 
phony  puzzled  some  of  the  newspaper  critics,  as  it  did  not 
conform  to  their  French  traditions.  These  do  not  permit 
such  slight  occasional  modifications  of  tempo  as  modern 
conductors  brought  up  in  the  German  traditions  of 
Beethoven  believe  essential  to  a  proper  interpretation  of 
this  master.  But  I  was  much  pleased  and  honored  to 
receive  a  complete  approval  of  my  interpretation,  not 
only  verbally  from  several  of  my  French  colleagues,  but 
also  from  M.  dTndy  in  an  article  which  he  wrote  on  our 
concert  and  in  which  he  said: 

Leaving  aside  everything  that  Walter  Damrosch  has  done  for  our 
country  and  the  French  musicians,  generous  acts  for  which  our  grati¬ 
tude  has  often  been  expressed,  I  wish  mainly  to  pay  my  tribute  to  the 
extremely  expressive  interpretation  at  the  concerts  he  has  given 
lately  at  the  Opera.  Whether  it  is  classical,  romantic,  or  modern 
music,  Damrosch  first  of  all  endeavors  to  set  off  and  illustrate  what 
we  call  the  “melos,”  the  element  of  expression,  the  voice  that  must 
rise  above  all  the  other  voices  of  the  orchestra.  He  knows  how  to 
distribute  the  agogic  action,  the  dynamic  power,  and  he  is  not  afraid 
— even  in  Beethoven’s  works  and  in  spite  of  the  surprise  this  caused 
to  our  public — to  accelerate  or  slacken  the  movement  when  the 
necessities  of  expression  demand  it. 

The  French  are  a  courteous  people,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  concert  there  was  an  even  greater  crowd  of  musicians 
and  friends  behind  the  scenes  to  express  their  pleasure 
at  our  success. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


281 


The  programmes  of  the  other  two  concerts  were  as 


follows : 

MAY  8 

1.  Overture,  “Le  Roi  d’Ys” . Lalo 

2.  Symphony,  “From  the  New  World” . Dvorak 

3.  Concerto  for  Violin  and  Orchestra  in  B  Minor . Saint-Saens 

MR.  SPALDING 

4.  a.  “Pelleas  et  Melisande”  (Fileuse) . Faure 

b.  Ma  Mere  L’Oye  (Les  Pagodes) . Ravel 

5.  Prelude  to  “  Die  Meistersinger  ” . Wagner 

MAY  9 

1.  Symphony  in  C  (Jupiter) . Mozart 

2.  Poems  (d’apres  Verlaine) . Loeffler 

3.  Symphony  in  D  Minor . Franck 

4.  Negro  Rhapsody  for  Piano  and  Orchestra . Powell 

JOHN  POWELL 


The  two  young  American  artists,  Albert  Spalding  and 
John  Powell,  made  a  splendid  impression,  and  of  the  or¬ 
chestral  works  the  Prelude  to  the  “  Meistersingers  ”  of 
Wagner  and  the  Mozart  and  Franck  Symphonies  re¬ 
ceived  special  acclaim. 

It  was  delightful  to  hear  the  half-suppressed  “Airis” 
and  “Bravos!”  so  characteristic  of  the  French  audience 
after  the  Andante  of  the  Mozart  Symphony.  I  confess 
that  the  more  spontaneous  approval  which  European 
audiences  give  in  drama,  opera,  or  concert  is  exceedingly 
gratifying  and  stimulates  the  artist  to  the  very  best  that 
is  in  him.  Every  artist  who  is  worth  his  salt  will  always 
approach  an  audience  with  the  feeling  that  they  are  as 
strangers  whom  through  his  art  he  must  win  over  as 
friends.  This  feeling  exists  whether  he  makes  his  first 
bow  as  a  beginner  or  appears  for  the  three  thousandth 
time  after  twenty  years  of  public  work.  It  is  a  wonder- 


282 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


ful  moment  for  him  when,  after  having  done  his  best  and 
given  all  there  is  in  him,  his  audience  show  by  the  in¬ 
tensity  of  their  approval  that  the  “song  which  he  breathed 
into  the  air”  has  found  its  home  “[in  the  heart  of  a  friend.” 

On  Sunday  morning,  May  9,  at  eleven,  the  orchestra 
of  the  Conservatoire  gave  a  great  party  in  our  honor  as  a 
return  courtesy  for  one  that  we  had  given  to  the  French 
Orchestra  on  their  arrival  in  America  in  1918.  We  all  met 
at  the  Salle  du  Conservatoire  where  M.  Leon,  represent¬ 
ing  the  Ministry  of  Fine  Arts,  was  waiting  to  receive  me. 
With  the  Conservatoire  Orchestra  were  various  French 
masters,  including  the  venerable  Gabriel  Faure,  and 
Messager,  the  conductor. 

After  various  speeches  of  welcome,  I  was  presented 
with  a  beautiful  engraving  of  Beethoven  and  made  an 
honorary  member  of  the  Conservatoire  Orchestra.  We 
then  marched  to  the  Taverne  du  Negre,  where  luncheon 
was  served.  There  were  so  many  different  kinds  of  wine¬ 
glasses  before  each  plate  that  I  asked  permission  to  make 
a  short  speech  in  English  to  my  orchestra.  It  consisted 
of  the  following: 

“Gentlemen,  remember  we  have  a  concert  this  after¬ 
noon,  so  please  mix  your  wine  with  much  water.” 

Needless  to  say,  in  all  the  speeches  the  theme  of  the 
war  was  constantly  played  upon  by  the  French  orators 
— how  much  France  owed  to  our  intervention  and  to  the 
bravery  of  our  soldiers. 

It  would  have  been  very  pleasant  to  stay  on  in  Paris, 
where  our  orchestra  were  beginning  to  feel  very  much  at 
home,  and  rest  upon  our  young  laurels,  but  our  tour  had 
only  begun  and  we  had  to  carry  on ! 

In  the  meantime  Mr.  Engles  and  our  treasurer,  Roger 
Townsend,  had  to  smooth  out  all  kinds  of  new  difficulties 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


283 


and  complications,  among  which  the  passport  nuisance 
was  the  greatest.  War  conditions  still  prevailed  and 
passports  had  to  be  carefully  vised  by  the  ambassadors 
of  every  country  we  visited.  All  our  orchestra  were 
practically  Americans,  but  technically  they  belonged  to 
America,  France,  Belgium,  Italy,  England,  Russia,  Ger¬ 
many,  Austria,  and  Czecho-SIovakia.  Many  of  them 
had  had  only  their  first  American  papers  when  the  war 
broke  out,  and  according  to  war  regulations  could  not 
yet  obtain  their  American  citizens’  papers.  They  were 
therefore  compelled  to  travel  on  foreign  passports  and 
some  of  their  vises  were  exceedingly  difficult  to  obtain,  as 
new  countries  like  Czecho-SIovakia,  for  instance,  had  not 
yet  a  properly  organized  diplomatic  service.  Others, 
like  Russia,  were  not  recognized  at  all  and  our  Russians 
had  to  travel  on  Kerensky  passports  issued  for  them  by 
the  Kerensky  ambassador  who  was  still  “ holding  the  fort” 
in  Washington.  Through  the  kindly  help  of  Mr.  Grew, 
councillor  at  our  embassy  in  Paris,  and  other  friends  in 
high  places,  we  finally  obtained  our  hundred  vises  and 
left  Paris  for  Bordeaux  on  May  1 1 ,  and — in  spite  of  the 
railroad  strike — with  the  passage  of  our  train  assured  as 
far  as  Bordeaux. 

The  only  fly  in  the  ointment  was  a  little  revolution 
before  we  left  the  station.  Some  of  the  members  of  the 
orchestra  had  brought  their  wives  and  even  a  few  small 
children  to  Europe  with  them.  They  very  naturally 
desired  to  give  their  families  a  good  time  and  wanted 
to  have  them  with  them  and  in  the  orchestra  cars  on  the 
entire  trip.  As  railroad  space  was  exceedingly  limited 
and  the  bachelor  and  straw-widower  members  of  the  or¬ 
chestra  strenuously  objected  to  this  addition,  I  had  to 
veto  the  plan,  and  painted  the  difficulties  of  travel, 


284 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


hotels,  passports,  etc.,  in  such  lurid  fashion  that  I  suc¬ 
ceeded  in  preventing  their  departure  from  Paris  with  us. 
The  husbands  promised  to  leave  their  families  in  Paris 
until  our  return,  about  three  weeks  later,  but  as  all  the 
wives  and  children  came  to  the  station  to  see  their  re¬ 
spective  husbands  and  fathers  off,  I  was  nervous  until 
the  last  doors  of  the  car  were  slammed  to  and  the  whistle 
of  the  French  locomotive,  which  always  sounds  like  the 
shrill  wail  of  the  damned,  announced  that  we  were 
really  off. 

The  orchestra  were  in  a  very  gay  mood  and  insisted  on 
getting  out  every  time  the  train  stopped  even  a  second, 
and  then  having  to  be  pulled  back  as  the  train  started 
again  without  any  warning.  A  passport  picture  of  one 
unfortunate  little  second  violinist  was  sent  through  all 
the  cars,  pasted  on  a  piece  of  paper  with  the  inscription: 
“Wanted  for  bigamy.  Member  of  the  New  York  Sym¬ 
phony  Orchestra.  Reward  of  three  francs  if  returned 
dead  or  alive  to  George  Engles,  Manager.”  This  had 
been  perpetrated  by  Willem  Willeke,  who  was  not  only  a 
master  violoncellist  but  the  master  mind  behind  almost 
every  practical  joke  indulged  in  during  the  tour. 

We  arrived  in  Bordeaux  that  evening  and  were  wel¬ 
comed  at  our  hotel  by  a  typical  little  hotel  manager,  with 
his  head  entirely  bald  on  top  but  beautifully  covered  with 
the  long  hair  combed  forward  from  the  back  of  his  head. 
He  also  had  a  full  beard  neatly  parted  in  the  middle, 
and  of  course  a  long  double-breasted  frock  coat.  He 
rubbed  his  hands  with  the  pleasure  of  welcoming  us  and 
assured  us  that  all  our  rooms  were  properly  reserved. 
Actually  it  took  us  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  get  our¬ 
selves  and  our  baggage  straightened  out  in  the  proper 
rooms.  Our  party  consisted  of  Albert  and  Mrs.  Spalding, 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR  285 


John  Powell,  Mary  Flagler,  my  daughter  Gretchen,  and 
myself,  and  the  highly  efficient  manager  had  sent  each 
one  of  us  at  first  to  the  wrong  rooms  while  our  bags  had 
still  further  gone  astray.  But  a  good  bath  and  a  de¬ 
licious  dinner  at  the  famous  Chapon  Fin  put  us  all  in 
good  humor. 

The  theatre  at  which  we  were  to  play  the  following 
evening  was  directly  opposite  to  our  hotel  and  its  frontal 
facade  is  without  doubt  the  most  beautiful  I  have  ever 
seen.  Such  examples  of  the  finest  architecture  of  the 
eighteenth  century  stand  out  in  remarkable  contrast  to 
their  more  modern  surroundings  and  it  is  difficult  to  un¬ 
derstand  how  French  architects,  with  such  noble  exam¬ 
ples  to  follow  and  with  a  school  in  Paris  which  is  still 
considered  the  best  in  the  world,  should  have  allowed 
their  art  to  degenerate  to  such  an  extent  within  the  last 
thirty  years.  One  has  but  to  compare  the  noble  facade 
of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  with  such  modern  monstros¬ 
ities  as,  for  instance,  the  Hotel  Mercedes  or  the  Palais 
de  Justice  at  Tours,  to  realize  that  in  their  endeavor  to 
break  away  completely  from  their  own  noblest  traditions 
they  have  deliberately  courted  anarchy,  for  their  archi¬ 
tecture  rests  upon  no  laws  of  beauty  or  symmetry.  Many 
of  our  best  American  architects  are  graduates  from  the 
Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts  in  Paris,  but  they  have  not  become 
revolutionaries  and  have  understood  how  to  adapt  their 
appreciation  of  the  best  French  traditions  to  American 
needs.  The  results  demonstrate  an  art  of  which  every 
American  can  be  proud. 

Our  concert,  which  was  given  under  the  auspices  of  the 
local  symphony  society,  was  received  with  great  favor. 
The  interior  of  the  theatre  is  delightfully  intimate,  and  the 
audience  gave  the  impression  of  belonging  to  an  old 


286 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


musical  civilization.  We  were  presented  with  huge 
bouquets  of  flowers  tied  with  the  American  colors.  Al¬ 
bert  Spalding’s  performance  made  a  splendid  impression, 
and  the  £<  Meistersinger”  Overture  came  in  for  special 
enthusiasm. 

But  what  was  my  astonishment  at  suddenly  beholding 
three  of  the  “  orchestra  wives,”  who  were  supposed  to 
have  remained  in  Paris,  seated  in  one  of  the  boxes.  I 
do  not  know  to  this  day  whether  they  rode  on  the  bump¬ 
ers  or  in  one  of  the  baggage-cars.  However,  they  were 
charming  ladies;  and,  as  a  married  man,  I  could  not  be  too 
angry  with  them  or  their  indulgent  husbands.  We  com¬ 
promised  in  the  matter  by  permitting  them  to  continue 
with  us  for  the  rest  of  the  tour,  provided  that  they  and 
their  husbands  occupied  space  elsewhere  than  that  re¬ 
served  for  the  orchestra,  and  that  they  looked  out 
for  their  own  passports  whenever  we  approached  the 
border. 

As  we  returned  to  our  hotel  after  the  concert  the  smil¬ 
ing  hotel  manager  stood  in  the  lobby  to  receive  us  and  to 
express  his  congratulations  at  the  success  of  a  concert 
merveilleux.  As  we  entered  the  electric  lift  to  go  to  our 
respective  rooms,  he  himself  shut  the  grating  on  us  and 
pressed  the  button  to  send  us  slowly  upward.  (AH 
French  lifts  move  slowly.)  Its  almost  celestial  calmness 
irresistibly  brought  the  Finale  of  Gounod’s  Faust”  to 
my  mind,  when  Marguerite  ascends  heavenward.  I  be¬ 
gan  to  sing  the  melody  of  the  “ Anges  radieux and 
just  as  we  got  up  to  the  first  floor  we  suddenly  heard  the 
voice  of  the  hotel  manager,  a  vibrant  tenor,  enthusi¬ 
astically  continuing  the  trio  from  below.  I  gazed  down¬ 
ward  and  there  he  was,  his  face  raised  ecstatically  toward 
us  and  his  hand  pressed  to  his  double-breasted  frock 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR  287 


coat — perhaps  a  poor  hotel  manager  but  certainly  an  en¬ 
thusiastic  lover  of  music. 

The  newspapers  of  Bordeaux  were  full  of  praise  about 
our  concert,  but  one  of  them  said:  “The  orchestra  played 
with  that  dryness  characteristic  of  all  North  Americans.” 
Alack  and  alas  !  Had  the  Eighteenth  Amendment,  which 
went  into  effect  the  previous  January,  already  made  its 
dreadful  influence  felt? 

Lyons  wais  to  be  the  next  city  on  our  itinerary,  but  un¬ 
fortunately  the  railroad  strike  had  completely  isolated  it 
and  there  was  no  way  of  reaching  it  from  Bordeaux.  We 
were  therefore  very  reluctantly  compelled  to  cancel  the 
concert.  Every  seat  had  been  sold  long  before,  and  as 
Lyons  ranked  next  to  Paris  in  musical  importance  the 
cancellation  was  a  great  disappointment  to  us. 

The  next  morning  Engles  brought  me  a  telegram  which 
he  had  just  received  from  our  general  manager  in  Paris, 
to  the  effect  that  at  Marseilles  the  hall  in  which  we  were 
to  play  had  been  condemned  by  the  fire  department  as 
unsafe,  and  that  therefore  the  concert  would  have  to  be 
given  at  another  theatre  and  under  different  management. 
Engles  did  not  like  the  look  of  things  and  begged  me,  as 
he  could  not  speak  French,  to  go  with  him  to  Marseilles 
and  look  over  the  ground  with  him.  We  were  to  have 
played  in  Marseilles  under  the  auspices  and  management 
of  the  local  symphonic  organization,  which,  however, 
turned  out  to  be  but  a  small  and  not  very  influential  body 
of  musicians,  most  of  whom  were  amateurs.  Their  secre¬ 
tary,  who  was  to  attend  to  the  details  of  management, 
was  a  newspaper  man  and  an  amateur  double-bass  player, 
of  which  instrument  he  was  very  proud.  When  we  ar¬ 
rived,  only  two  days  before  the  concert,  we  found  that 
absolutely  nothing  had  been  done  to  advertise  it.  There 


288 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


were  no  posters,  no  advertisements,  and  the  manager  of 
the  theatre  to  which  we  had  been  transferred  did  not  even 
know  before  our  arrival  whether  we  were  a  jazz  band  of 
colored  people  from  America  or  perhaps  a  troupe  of  wan¬ 
dering  minstrels. 

We  were  to  give  two  concerts,  and  at  first  it  seemed  as 
if,  under  such  disheartening  circumstances,  it  were  better 
to  cancel  them  and  proceed  to  Monte  Carlo  and  Italy, 
where  already  sold-out  houses  awaited  us.  The  news¬ 
paper  man,  who  was  the  real  delinquent,  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  He  had  gone  to  the  country  “pour  se  reposer” 
and  was  not  expected  until  the  following  day.  Luckily 
the  theatre  manager  proved  to  be  of  the  right  sort. 
When  he  saw  what  our  organization  really  stood  for  he 
would  not  hear  of  cancellation,  and  immediately  went 
around  to  all  the  newspaper  offices  with  Engles.  Post¬ 
ers,  the  principal  method  of  advertising  in  Europe,  ap¬ 
peared  on  the  street  corners  as  if  by  magic;  and  while  it 
was  too  late  to  attract  a  large  audience  for  the  first  con¬ 
cert,  he  assured  us  that  if  this  concert  were  the  success 
which  he  expected,  the  theatre,  which  held  about  twenty- 
four  hundred  people,  would  be  entirely  sold  out  for  the 
second  concert  on  Sunday  afternoon.  His  prophecy 
proved  correct.  There  were  not  more  than  eight  hundred 
people  at  the  first  concert,  but  as  they  were  real  sons  of 
the  Midi  and  as  they  had  never  heard  a  symphonic  or¬ 
ganization  of  such  size  and  importance  in  their  lives,  they 
went  mad.  They  applauded  with  their  hands,  with  both 
feet,  with  their  canes  and  umbrellas.  They  shouted  in 
eight-part  harmonies  and  the  rafters  of  the  theatre 
trembled  in  sympathy.  After  the  concert  they  lined  up 
at  the  box-office  in  a  great  crowd  while  the  theatre  man¬ 
ager,  grinning  from  ear  to  ear,  said:  “Did  I  not  tell  you?” 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


289 


In  the  meantime  the  delinquent  local  secretary-manager 
turned  up  and  I  was  fully  prepared  to  annihilate  him  for 
his  lack  of  proper  preliminary  advertising  for  our  concert, 
but  as  he  immediately  called  me  “Cher  maitre”  and  ex¬ 
pressed  his  delight  in  such  eloquent  French  at  the  coming 
of  so  notable  an  organization  as  ours,  he  completely 
spiked  my  guns  and  I  found  myself  unable  to  get  in 
a  word  edgewise,  much  less  tell  him  what  I  really  thought 
of  him. 

I  have  told  before  that  he  was  an  amateur  double-bass 
player  in  the  local  orchestra,  and  this  was  evidently  the 
ruling  passion  of  his  life,  although  I  never  could  under¬ 
stand  why  an  amateur  should  choose  this  particular  in¬ 
strument  for  his  delectation.  After  the  second  concert 
and  while  the  hall  was  still  ringing  with  the  shouts  of  the 
fiery  citizens  of  Marseilles,  he  came  into  my  dressing-room 
as  I  thought  to  add  his  tribute  of  praise,  but,  alas,  all  he 
said  was:  “Cher  maitre,  I  could  hardly  hear  your  double- 
bass  players  during  the  entire  concert.”  I  presume  that 
at  the  concerts  of  his  orchestra  he  was  so  taken  up  with 
his  own  double-bass  part  that  as  he  played  he  heard  noth¬ 
ing  of  the  other  instruments  around  and  about  him.  He 
became,  so  to  speak,  intoxicated  with  the  resonance  of 
his  own  instrument.  At  our  concert,  seated  in  the  audi¬ 
ence,  he  suddenly  found,  poor  man,  that  the  double  bass 
was  not  the  only  pebble  on  the  orchestral  beach,  and  that 
occasionally  the  violins,  the  wood  winds,  or  the  brasses 
had  also  something  of  importance  to  enunciate.  It  must 
have  been  a  sad  revelation  to  him,  and  I  do  not  wonder 
that  he  refused  to  accept  it. 

In  the  meantime  the  strike  fever  was  spreading  in 
every  direction,  and  there  wtas  not  a  trolley  running 
through  the  town  of  Marseilles  nor  a  boat  leaving  the 


290 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


harbor.  The  effect  was  a  very  curious  one,  as  the  streets 
were  filled  with  great  crowds  restlessly  moving  up  and 
down,  and  seemingly  without  work  or  affairs  of  any  kind 
to  keep  them  busy.  In  several  of  the  streets  small  bands 
were  playing  in  roped-off  circles  while  thirty  couples  or  so 
were  dancing  madly  around  with  hundreds  of  others 
outside  the  ropes  watching  them.  The  huge  audience 
who  arrived  for  our  Sunday  afternoon  concert  must  have 
come  on  foot,  as  there  was  not  a  wheel  turning  anywhere. 

After  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  the  great  iron  doors  were 
suddenly  closed  and  bolted,  for  quite  a  riot  started  in 
front  of  it.  The  trolley  company  was  trying  to  run  a 
car  through  the  city,  manned  by  young  mechanicians  from 
the  School  of  Technology,  and  every  once  in  a  while  a 
mob  of  strikers  would  rush  at  them,  break  the  windows 
of  the  car,  and  pull  off  the  young  strike-breakers.  But 
it  was  all  done  in  rather  an  amiable  fashion,  while  a  crowd 
of  men  in  light  straw  hats  applauded  with  their  hands 
and  shouted  “Bravo,”  all  as  if  it  were  a  performance 
gotten  up  for  their  pleasure.  Then  a  couple  of  amiable 
gendarmes  would  come  along  and  in  the  same  placid 
fashion  place  the  young  men  on  the  car  again,  which 
would  then  proceed  for  another  few  yards  or  so.  Sud¬ 
denly,  however,  this  seeming  comedy  took  a  tragic  turn. 
The  mob  made  a  vicious  lunge;  they  were  stopped  by  the 
police  who  suddenly  acted  with  great  energy,  and  soon 
there  were  several  men  seriously  hurt.  In  the  meantime 
the  strike-breakers  had  again  connected  their  car  with  the 
electric  wire,  and  although  the  car  with  its  broken  win¬ 
dows  looked  a  perfect  wreck,  it  moved  triumphantly  along 
the  tracks  and  the  strike  was  broken.  Next  morning 
every  car  was  running  again. 

Later  that  afternoon  I  received  a  visit  from  Morris 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


291 


Tivin,  the  first  double-bass  player  of  our  orchestra.  He 
brought  with  him  a  boy  of  fifteen,  a  little  Russian  Jew, 
who  had  a  most  remarkable  history.  He  had  escaped 
from  a  prison  in  Russia  and  worked  his  way  to  Constanti¬ 
nople.  As  he  was  a  violinist  of  exceptional  ability,  he 
had  made  a  meagre  living  there  playing  in  the  cafes. 
Having  read  in  some  old  Paris  paper  that  we  were  to 
give  a  concert  in  Marseilles  he  had  quickly  made  up  his 
mind  to  get  there  and  perhaps  through  our  help  reach 
the  promised  land  of  America.  He  arrived  in  Marseilles 
as  a  stowaway  after  incredible  hardships,  and  when  he 
introduced  himself  to  some  of  his  Russian  compatriots 
in  my  orchestra,  he  was  literally  starving  and  without  a 
cent  in  his  pockets.  Within  a  few  hours  our  orchestra 
had  subscribed  enough  money  to  send  him  to  New  York 
with  several  letters  to  their  colleagues  at  the  Musical 
Union,  and  within  a  week  after  his  arrival  he  was  engaged 
as  second  concert  master  at  a  large  salary  in  one  of  our 
Western  orchestras. 

The  generous  spirit  displayed  by  our  men,  which  dem¬ 
onstrated  itself  in  so  quick  and  practical  a  fashion,  is 
characteristic  of  the  rank  and  file  of  our  profession.  I 
have  never  known  a  case  of  an  orchestra  musician  or 
chorus  singer  in  need  that  his  colleagues  were  not  immedi¬ 
ately  ready  to  help,  and  as  their  own  earnings  are  com¬ 
paratively  small  their  generosity  is  much  greater  in  pro¬ 
portion  than  that  of  many  a  rich  man  whose  name  figures 
largely  among  the  subscribers  to  our  charitable  organiza¬ 
tions. 

Our  next  concert  was  to  be  in  Monte  Carlo,  and  I 
motored  with  my  wife  from  Marseilles  along  the  Riviera, 
reaching  Monte  Carlo  on  the  evening  of  May  17.  The 
orchestra  had  already  arrived  by  train  and  were  to  be 


292 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


found  all  over  the  town  photographing  points  of  inter¬ 
est,  especially  the  beautiful  statue  erected  to  Hector 
Berlioz,  which  we  were  all  glad  to  honor.  Every  or¬ 
chestra  musician  adores  this  great  master,  who  in  his 
scores  has  done  more  than  any  other  to  develop  new 
tone  combinations  in  the  symphonic  orchestra  since  Bee¬ 
thoven  and  before  Wagner. 

A  great  many  of  our  men  naturally  went  to  the  Casino 
to  behold  the  world-famous  gambling  tables,  but  if  I 
ever  had  any  worries  about  their  squandering  their  earn¬ 
ings  they  quite  disappeared.  Many  only  watched  at  the 
outer  edge,  or  else  bet  one  chip  very  timidly.  An  aged 
harpy,  who  looked  as  though  she  had  played  at  Monte 
Carlo  since  the  time  of  Napoleon  III  and  who  kept  a 
note-book  of  her  losses  and  winnings  and  never  bet  less 
than  a  hundred  francs  at  a  time,  took  it  upon  herself  to 
teach  one  of  our  talented  young  flute  players  how  to  play 
with  one  white  chip.  She  kept  him  in  a  state  of  the  most 
panting  thrills,  while  she  placed  his  bets  for  him. 

The  next  morning  I  found  a  note  from  Jean  de  Reszke 
telling  me  that  he,  his  wife,  and  Amhurst  Webber  would 
motor  over  from  Nice  for  the  concert,  and  asking  my  wife 
and  me  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Grand  Hotel  de  Paris, 
where  we  were  staying.  It  was  such  a  joy  to  see  him 
again.  We  had  not  met  since  1902,  when  he  had  been  at 
the  Metropolitan  at  the  height  of  his  fame  and  I  had 
conducted  many  a  glorious  “Tristan”  performance  with 
him  in  the  title  role.  Amhurst  Webber,  a  highly  talented 
English  musician,  had  then  been  with  him  as  pianist  and 
I  had  helped  him  a  little  with  his  studies  in  composition 
and  instrumentation.  Mme.  de  Reszke  I  had  never  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  before.  A  great  tragedy  had 
come  upon  her,  as  their  only  son  had  been  killed  in  the 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


293 


first  year  of  the  war.  It  was  heart-breaking  to  see  her,  as 
her  face  told  the  story  of  her  irreparable  loss. 

The  concert  in  the  afternoon  took  place  in  the  ex¬ 
quisite  little  theatre  at  the  Casino.  It  seats  only  about 
four  hundred  people  and  of  course  every  seat  was  oc¬ 
cupied.  Jean  de  Reszke  was  in  the  fifth  row  of  the  par¬ 
quet,  and  as  I  came  to  the  “Prize  Song”  in  the  “  Meister- 
singer”  Overture,  which  he  had  sung  so  often  and  so 
ravishingly  in  New  York,  I  could  not  help  but  turn 
around  to  look  at  him.  He  gave  me  an  immediate  smile, 
but  the  tears  were  running  down  his  face. 

At  the  close  of  the  concert  I  was  solemnly  informed  by 
the  very  polite  little  intendant  of  the  theatre  that  M. 
Blanc,  the  principal  owner  of  the  Casino,  the  opera,  the 
gambling  tables,  the  Hotel  de  Paris,  in  fact  everything 
which  draws  the  hundred-franc  notes  from  the  grateful 
tourist,  had  expressed  a  desire  to  meet  me  and  to  thank 
me  for  the  “concert  exquis  .”  I  was  accordingly  piloted  to 
another  part  of  the  building,  where,  in  an  anteroom,  five 
or  six  people  were  waiting  as  if  in  a  doctor’s  outer  of¬ 
fice,  while  flunkies  in  livery  were  silently  walking  around 
or  delivering  whispered  messages  to  this  or  that  man. 
One  of  these  approached  my  little  intendant  with  a 
message,  who  turned  to  me  and,  with  a  face  radiant  with 
pride,  said:  “Think  of  it!  He  will  see  us  first  before  all 
the  others !” 

We  followed  the  flunky  into  an  inner  room  where  I 
found  a  tired-looking,  gray-mustached  little  man  whom 
I  had  noticed  sleeping  in  one  of  the  boxes  during  about 
half  an  hour  of  the  concert.  He  congratulated  me  on  the 
“splendid  concert  and  the  exquisite  playing  of  the  orches¬ 
tra,”  and  as  I  sat  there  I  marvelled  at  it  all.  Here  was 
a  man  whom  we  in  America  would  call  a  gambling-house 


294 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


keeper,  but  he  is  certainly  a  king  among  them.  He  has 
provided  his  gambling  tables  with  a  setting  so  exquisite 
that  words  cannot  describe  it.  Nature  in  her  most  charm¬ 
ing  mood,  beautiful  architecture,  delightful  music,  ex¬ 
quisite  cooking — all  these  so  skilfully  combined  as  to 
create  an  agreeable  atmosphere  for  the  thousands  who 
come  every  year  with  full  pockets  and  generally  leave 
with  empty  ones.  Incidentally  he  makes  millions  by 
thus  cleverly  pandering  to  the  gambling  instincts  which 
are  inherent  in  almost  every  man  (and  woman). 

To  me  the  most  delightful  feature  of  the  concert,  ex¬ 
cept  of  course  the  visit  of  Jean  de  Reszke,  was  a  large 
audience  of  seventy-five  who  sat  behind  the  scenes  as  there 
was  no  room  for  them  in  front.  They  were  the  orchestra 
of  the  Monte  Carlo  Opera,  an  excellent  body  of  men  who 
embraced  us  in  true  southern  fashion  between  the  parts 
and  at  the  end  of  the  concert. 

The  next  morning  I  continued  the  trip  by  motor  to 
Genoa.  As  there  had  been  no  strike  of  any  kind  in 
Monte  Carlo  I  thought  that  our  hoodoo  had  lifted,  but, 
Io  and  behold,  at  Genoa  we  found  only  one  old,  gray- 
bearded  portier  at  our  hotel  to  greet  us.  All  the  waiters, 
porters,  chambermaids,  cooks,  scullions,  in  fact  everything 
that  could  strike  in  connection  with  a  hotel,  were  on 
strike  and  the  discomfort  was  considerable.  We  had 
looked  forward  with  pleasurable  anticipation  to  our  first 
Italian  dinner.  We  had  dreamed  of  fritto  misto,  spaghetti, 
and  of  delicious  Italian  ices,  but  these  dreams  quickly 
vanished.  There  was  not  even  a  crust  of  bread  to  be  ob¬ 
tained  at  the  hotel.  Finally  we  were  furtively  conducted 
through  an  alley  into  the  back  entrance  of  a  little  res¬ 
taurant  by  way  of  the  kitchen,  and  there  we  obtained 
some  food,  but  of  the  simplest  and  poorest  variety.  The 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


295 


next  morning  a  cup  of  wretched  coffee  and  a  piece  of 
stale  bread  at  the  railroad  station  made  our  breakfast, 
but  luckily  for  us  a  kind  young  American,  Mr.  Allan, 
called  on  us  and  whisked  us  off  in  his  car  to  his  house, 
where  a  delicious  luncheon  made  us  forget  our  depriva¬ 
tions  of  the  night  before. 

I  was  again  amazed  at  the  cleverness  with  which 
the  members  of  our  orchestra  adapted  themselves  to 
European  travelling  conditions.  They  had  all  found 
excellent  restaurants  and  had  really  fared  much  better 
than  we. 

We  gave  our  concert  at  the  Teatro  Carlo  Felice,  and  our 
first  Italian  audience  proved  to  be  even  more  noisy  in 
their  demonstrations  of  pleasure  than  the  Midi.  I  was 
very  much  touched  to  receive  a  large  wreath  tied  with 
the  stars  and  stripes,  from  the  American  Consul-General, 
who  told  me  after  the  concert  that  he  considered  such  a 
cultural  mission  as  we  were  engaged  in  of  as  much  im¬ 
portance  for  cordial  relations  between  our  country  and 
Italy  as  any  business  enterprise.  He  said  that  music 
meant  so  much  to  the  Italian  that  he  was  amazed  and 
delighted  to  find  that  Americans  did  not  only  interest 
themselves  in  business  but  also  cultivated  the  arts.  As 
the  Italians  had  been  so  bitterly  disillusioned  regarding 
President  Wilson,  after  the  phenomenally  enthusiastic 
acclaim  which  they  had  given  him  on  his  visit  to  Rome 
only  a  year  before,  I  was  not  surprised  to  have  one  old 
gentleman  say  to  me  after  the  concert:  “We  do  not  like 
your  President,  but  we  love  the  Americans.” 

We  left  next  morning  by  train  for  Rome.  The  highly 
talented  young  composer,  Signor  Vincenzo  Tommasini, 
had  interested  himself  in  our  concerts  there  and  had  en¬ 
listed  the  sympathies  of  the  Accademia  Santa  Cecilia, 


296 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


under  whose  auspices  we  were  to  play  at  the  Augusteo. 
The  Santa  Cecilia,  which  is  composed  of  musicians  and 
music  lovers,  is  perhaps  the  oldest  musical  organization 
in  the  world,  as  it  was  founded  by  Palestrina.  Under  the 
presidency  of  Count  San  Martino  it  maintains  a  symphony 
orchestra  which  gives  a  series  of  concerts  during  the  winter 
under  its  own  conductor,  Maestro  Molinari,  and  various 
guest  conductors. 

All  these  concerts  are  given  at  the  Augusteo,  so  called 
because  it  was  built  by  Augustus  as  a  tomb  for  the 
Caesars.  It  is  a  rotunda  built  of  the  old  Roman  bricks, 
but  balconies,  a  stage,  and  an  organ  have  been  added  to 
it  in  recent  times  to  adapt  it  to  modern  concert  needs. 
It  very  likely  was  an  excellent  tomb,  but  its  acoustics  are 
hardly  suited  for  an  orchestra.  I  do  not  know  of  any 
concert-hall  built  in  circular  shape  that  is  satisfactory  in 
that  respect.  The  sound  vibrations  seem  to  travel  around 
and  around  and  great  confusion  of  tones  is  the  result,  es¬ 
pecially  in  such  music  where  changing  harmonies  succeed 
each  other  rapidly.  At  our  little  preliminary  rehearsal 
the  hall  was  empty  with  the  exception  of  half  a  dozen 
members  of  the  Santa  Cecilia,  and  as  we  began  to  play 
through  a  few  bars  of  the  symphony  I  thought  I  had 
suddenly  become  deaf,  as  the  sound  of  the  orchestra  did 
not  reach  me  where  I  stood.  But  I  remembered  our  first 
experience  at  the  Grand  Opera  House  in  Paris  and  trusted 
to  better  conditions  when  the  hall  was  full.  This  hope 
was  justified,  as  the  tone  of  the  orchestra  was  much 
clearer  and  better  balanced  at  the  concert. 

After  the  first  and  second  movements  of  the  “Eroica” 
Symphony  there  were  great  applause  and  shouts  of 
“Bravo !”  from  the  boxes  and  parquet,  but  this  was  im¬ 
mediately  followed  by  very  disconcerting  whistling  from 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


297 


the  top  gallery,  which  seemed  to  develop  into  a  kind  of 
duel  between  the  two  factions.  I  was  somewhat  discon- 
concerted  at  this  and  thought  that  perhaps  something  in 
our  playing  had  not  pleased  the  galleries,  but  my  friends 
of  the  Accademia  Santa  Cecilia  assured  me  that  this  was 
nothing  but  a  characteristic  little  demonstration  which 
often  occurred  at  their  concerts.  If  the  parquet  and 
boxes  approved  of  some  particular  composition  or  ren¬ 
dition  the  galleries  felt  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  oppose 
it.  I  do  not  know  how  true  this  explanation  is,  but  during 
the  concert  the  whistling  suddenly  ceased  and  after  the 
“Riccardo  Wagner.  Tristan  e  Isotta,  Preludio  e  Morte 
di  Isotta  (Lipsia  1813 — Venezia  1883),”  as  the  Italian 
programme  had  it,  the  two  factions  seemed  to  have 
buried  their  hatchets  completely  and  were  in  absolute 
harmony  as  far  as  their  enthusiastic  acclaim  toward  us 
was  concerned. 

During  the  two  days  following,  the  Romans  over¬ 
whelmed  us  with  hospitalities.  The  heat  was  terrific,  but 
the  entire  orchestra  responded  to  an  invitation  to  be 
presented  to  the  mayor  and  to  visit  the  Capitoline  Mu¬ 
seum,  where  they  were  offered  a  private  view  of  its  art 
treasures,  followed  by  a  luncheon  given  by  the  munici¬ 
pality  in  the  adjoining  ruins  of  the  Tabolarium. 

On  the  following  morning  Tommasini,  Molinari,  and 
a  few  others  of  my  musician  colleagues  sauntered  into  my 
salon  and  suggested  that  we  go  to  a  concert  given  that 
morning  at  the  Borghese  Gardens  by  the  famous  Banda 
Communale  di  Roma.  The  heat  was  so  overwhelming 
that  I  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  standing  under  the  blazing 
noonday  sun  listening  to  a  concert,  especially  as  I  had  to 
conduct  our  own  second  concert  on  that  afternoon. 

“Please  come,”  said  Tommasini. 


298 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


“No,  indeed,”  I  said.  “It  is  far  too  hot  and  I  want  to 
do  good  work  this  afternoon.” 

“But  the  concert  is  given  in  your  honor.” 

4 ‘Good  gracious!  Why  didn’t  you  tell  me  that  im¬ 
mediately?  Come  along!” 

I  grabbed  my  hat  and  we  drove  to  the  Borghese  Gar¬ 
dens,  where  a  crowd  of  several  thousand  people  were 
gathered  around  the  bandstand  and  where  Maestro 
Vecella  was  conducting  his  band  in  a  beautiful  rendition 
of  the  Prelude  to  Wagner’s  “Parsifal.”  It  was  a  wonder¬ 
ful  performance.  His  clarinets  played  the  opening  uni¬ 
son  phrase  with  a  vibrant  and  singing  quality  that  I  have 
rarely  heard  equalled,  and  I  was  struck  by  the  rapt  silence 
with  which  the  huge  audience  of  Italians  listened  to  it.  I, 
unfortunately,  arrived  too  late  to  hear  the  rendition  of 
Beethoven’s  “Fifth  Symphony,”  which  Vecella  himself  had 
arranged  for  military  band  and  which  my  musicians  after¬ 
ward  told  me  had  been  beautifully  performed.  The  con¬ 
cert  came  to  a  close  with  a  selection  of  airs  from  one  of  the 
popular  modern  Italian  operas.  To  my  astonishment  and 
delight,  as  the  band  began  to  play  this  or  that  air,  evi¬ 
dently  well  known  to  the  audience,  groups  of  men  around 
the  band  stand  joined  in  singing  it  with  the  orchestra 
mezza  voce ,  but  with  that  perfect  quality  of  tone  which  is 
inborn  in  the  Italian  race.  And  then,  as  the  sounds  of 
one  group  would  die  out,  another  from  the  other  side 
would  take  it  up,  and  this  continued  until  the  end  of  the 
number.  It  was  a  delightful  demonstration  of  the  innate 
musical  genius  of  the  Italian  people. 

I  forgot  temporarily  that  the  sun  was  blazing  down  with 
a  fierceness  almost  unendurable,  but  after  I  had  thanked 
Maestro  Vecella  for  this  truly  wonderful  concert,  I  begged 
Molinari  and  Tommasini  to  take  me  back  to  my  hotel. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


299 


“Stay  a  little  while  longer,”  said  Tommasini. 

“Impossible!”  I  answered.  “I  am  melting  away  and 
there  will  be  nothing  left  of  me  if  I  do  not  get  to  some 
shaded  spot  soon.” 

“Oh,  but  you  will,”  he  said.  “The  Banda  Communale 
are  now  going  to  present  you  with  the  gold  medal  of  the 
society,  with  a  special  inscription.” 

“Why  in  heaven’s  name  did  you  not  tell  me  this 
sooner?”  I  said  to  my  friend,  but  he  simply  smiled  his 
inscrutable  Italian  smile  and  lit  another  cigarette.  With 
the  resolve  to  do  or  die,  I  marched  along  with  them  to  a 
private  room  in  a  restaurant  adjoining  the  Gardens  and 
there  ices  and  vermuth  were  served  to  the  members  of 
the  two  musical  organizations,  and  I  was  presented  with 
the  gold  Roman  medal,  which  I  treasure  very  highly  as 
coming  from  so  remarkable  a  body  of  players  as  the  Banda 
Communale  di  Roma. 

For  some  years  I  have  been  interested  in  the  new  musical 
development  that  is  going  on  in  Italy.  There  had  been  a 
period  when  her  church  music  led  the  world  in  the  variety 
and  beauty  of  its  form.  Later  on,  especially  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  she  had  produced  many  composers 
of  distinction  in  instrumental  music,  but  from  then  on 
and  until  very  recent  times,  opera  had  almost  completely 
monopolized  her  writers.  The  splendid  opera-houses 
which  are  to  be  found  in  her  smallest  towns  are  eloquent 
testimony  to  the  important  place  which  that  form  of  art 
occupies  in  the  hearts  of  the  Italian  people.  Every 
Italian  can  sing,  and  the  critics  and  lovers  of  opera  are 
to  be  found  just  as  much  among  the  poorer  classes  as 
among  the  aristocracy. 

But  all  the  testimony  of  older  musicians  with  whom  I 
have  spoken  and  who  have  travelled  through  Italy  is  to 


300 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


the  effect  that  her  orchestras  formerly  were  of  a  very 
poor  quality.  Their  playing  was  slovenly  and  rehearsals 
few  and  insufficient.  Many  of  the  players  in  the  opera- 
houses  of  even  the  larger  cities  followed  some  other 
calling  in  the  daytime,  and  there  was  many  a  tailor  or 
shoemaker  who  played  his  violin  in  the  evening  at  the 
opera. 

Within  the  last  twenty-five  years,  however,  a  complete 
and  almost  miraculous  change  has  come  over  musical  con¬ 
ditions  throughout  Italy.  Its  conservatories  in  Rome, 
Milan,  Bologna,  and  Naples  turn  out  excellent  players,  and 
several  of  her  conductors  rank  with  the  best  of  other 
countries.  Signor  Mancinelli,  for  instance,  who  was  my 
colleague  during  the  years  that  I  conducted  at  the  Metro¬ 
politan  for  Maurice  Grau,  was  a  first-class  musician  and 
conductor,  well  versed  in  more  than  Italian  music.  He 
was  a  great  lover  of  Mozart  and  gave  beautiful  perform¬ 
ances  of  the  “ Magic  Flute”  at  the  Metropolitan.  He 
envied  me  my  job  of  conducting  the  Wagner  operas  and 
later  on  conducted  many  of  them  in  Italy  and  Spain. 

Toscanini  is  one  of  the  greatest  conductors  living  to¬ 
day.  His  range  extends  to  the  music  of  all  countries, 
and  I  have  heard  him  conduct  Mozart’s  “Don  Gio¬ 
vanni,”  Verdi’s  “Falstaff,”  and  Wagner’s  “Meister- 
singer”  in  one  week  with  equal  penetration  into  their 
beauties  and,  incidentally,  without  an  orchestral  score 
in  front  of  him.  He  has  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  as 
he  is  almost  blind  and  has  therefore  developed  his  power 
of  memory  to  a  greater  extent  than  I  have  ever  seen  in 
any  other  musician,  not  even  excepting  Hans  von  Bulow. 

The  result  of  Italy’s  more  serious  attitude  toward  in¬ 
strumental  music  shows  itself  not  only  in  the  quality  of 
Italian  orchestras,  but  in  a  group  of  highly  talented  young 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


301 


composers  who  devote  their  principal  efforts  to  sym¬ 
phonic  music,  and  who  are  creating  works  that  rank  with 
the  best  that  other  countries  are  now  producing.  Several 
years  ago  I  produced  an  orchestral  suite  written  by  a  boy 
of  sixteen,  Victor  di  Sabata,  which  showed  remarkable 
talent  and  fine  orchestral  coloring.  Such  men  as  Ras- 
pighi,  Sinigalgia,  Tommasini,  Casella,  Pizzetti,  and  Mali- 
piero  have  found  frequent  places  on  our  programmes,  and 
I  expect  still  further  contributions,  constantly  growing 
in  importance,  from  this  new  development  of  the  musical 
genius  of  Italy. 

I  was  much  touched  by  the  interest  which  our  am¬ 
bassador,  Mr.  Johnson,  constantly  showed  in  our  success 
and  well-being.  He  had  invited  the  Queen  Mother  and 
several  of  the  young  Princesses  to  our  concerts,  and  at 
the  many  official  and  governmental  functions  which  I 
had  to  attend  he  was  a  sympathetic  companion  and  real 
brother  artist.  He  always  responded  very  felicitously 
when  occasion  demanded,  and  all  my  Italian  musician 
friends  loved  him. 

At  a  farewell  supper  which  I  gave  on  the  last  night 
John  Powell,  whose  negro  Fantasy  had  interested  our 
Italian  audiences  greatly,  and  the  composer,  Malipiero, 
sat  next  to  each  other,  but  as  John  speaks  English  and 
Malipiero  Italian  and  French,  the  silence  between  them 
for  about  ten  minutes  was  deep  and  profound.  Suddenly 
they  broke  into  the  most  fluent  conversation  and  the 
words  burst  forth  in  torrents.  They  had  suddenly  dis¬ 
covered  to  their  mutual  delight  that  the  German  lan¬ 
guage  was  a  common  meeting-ground. 

I  left  Rome  very  reluctantly.  Quite  apart  from  the 
many  personal  friends  that  I  had  made  there,  its  eternal 
beauty  again  enveloped  me  and  bade  me  stay. 


302 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


I  cannot  imagine  any  movement  or  institution  better 
calculated  to  help  young  American  artists  to  further  de¬ 
velop  and  stimulate  their  creative  abilities  than  the 
American  Academy  in  Rome.  It  has  quite  recently 
added  three  music  fellowships  to  those  for  painters, 
sculptors,  architects,  and  archaeologists,  and,  as  it  has 
done  me  the  honor  to  elect  me  as  one  of  the  trustees  and 
the  still  greater  honor  of  giving  my  name  to  one  of  the 
music  fellowships,  I  revisited  Rome  in  the  spring  of  1922 
especially  to  observe  the  workings  of  our  academy.  I  was 
amazed  and  delighted  beyond  words.  The  academy  is  in¬ 
tended  for  young  artists  who  have  already  acquired  the 
technic  of  their  profession.  They  are  selected  by  competi¬ 
tion  and  are  given  absolute  freedom  from  bread  worries 
for  three  years,  the  first  two  of  which  they  spend  at  the 
home  of  the  academy,  the  Villa  Aurelia.  During  the 
third  year  they  may  travel  or  live  anywhere  in  Europe 
where  they  think  their  artistic  aims  can  be  further  ad¬ 
vanced.  Rome  and  its  surroundings  are  so  romantic 
and  its  art  treasures  so  unique  that  the  perception  of 
beauty  and  its  crystallization  into  works  of  art  cannot 
fail  to  be  further  stimulated  in  those  of  our  American 
boys  who  have  the  good  fortune  to  achieve  a  fellowship. 

It  is,  of  course,  impossible  for  any  man-made  institu¬ 
tion  to  guarantee  that  every  incumbent  will  develop  into 
a  great  genius,  but  it  is  certain  that  as  only  the  best  are 
chosen,  they  will  become  still  better  through  such  happy 
three  years,  and  if  among  every  two  hundred  only  one 
real  genius  is  found  and  thus  encouraged  the  academy 
will  have  justified  its  existence. 

Two  of  our  music  fellows  had  already  arrived  at  the 
academy,  Leo  Sowerby,  of  Chicago,  and  Howard  Hanson, 
of  San  Jose,  California,  and  had  immediately,  with  char- 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


303 


acteristic  American  energy,  made  themselves  part  and 
parcel  of  Roman  musical  life.  The  Italian  musicians  had 
welcomed  them  with  open  arms,  and  our  boys  were  con¬ 
stantly  found  at  the  concerts  and  rehearsals  of  the  Santa 
Cecilia  or  having  some  of  their  Italian  musician  friends 
at  the  Villa  Aurelia  for  chamber-music,  and  a  cup  of  tea 
in  the  beautiful  gardens  surrounding  the  villa. 

America  owes  a  great  debt  of  gratitude  to  Major  Felix 
Lamond,  through  whose  single-mindedness  of  purpose 
and  energy  the  fund  has  been  collected  which  has  made 
the  three  music  fellowships  possible.  He  is  now  continu¬ 
ing  the  work  by  giving  his  life  to  the  music  department 
of  the  academy,  and  as  its  director  acts  as  guide,  coun¬ 
sellor,  and  friend  to  its  young  incumbents.  I  must  con¬ 
fess  that  during  my  visit  I  had  the  constant  yearning 
that  I  might  be  forty  years  younger  and  could  spend  three 
wonderful  years  in  Rome  under  such  ideal  conditions. 

The  last  night  Major  Lamond,  his  wife,  and  I  dined  on 
the  roof  of  the  Villa  Aurelia  with  Director  Stevens,  who 
is  in  supreme  charge  of  the  entire  academy.  According 
to  Roman  custom  dinner  began  after  nine  o’clock.  Be¬ 
neath  us  and  stretching  out  toward  the  Campagna  was 
the  entire  city  of  Rome  with  its  electric  lights  appearing 
like  magic  in  every  direction.  Beyond  the  Campagna 
rose  the  mountains,  still  visible  in  the  faint  twilight. 
Opposite  to  us  rose  the  hill  of  the  Pincio  Gardens,  and  on 
the  left,  just  visible  over  the  tree  tops,  flamed  the  cross  of 
Saint  Peter’s.  The  silence  was  profound  until  suddenly 
the  bells  of  Rome  began  to  vibrate  from  all  directions, 
and  finally,  faint  but  clear,  came  the  sound  of  a  bugle 
from  the  military  barracks,  blowing  the  retreat.  By  this 
time  I  was  sunk  in  a  silent  ecstasy,  but  a  further  climax 
was  yet  in  store  for  me,  for  as  the  last  notes  of  the  bugle 


304 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


trembled  into  silence  a  nightingale  from  the  bushes  di¬ 
rectly  below  us  began  to  pour  forth  her  song. 

Florence  came  next  on  our  orchestral  tour  and  I  looked 
forward  with  eagerness  after  our  crowded  days  of  official 
receptions  and  concerts  to  a  day  absolutely  free  from 
duties  of  any  kind.  We  arrived  on  May  24,  and  I  hoped 
to  sleep  deep  and  late,  but  at  nine  o’clock  next  morning 
there  was  a  knock  at  my  door,  and  without  any  further 
preliminary  warning  in  walked  a  young  gentleman,  who 
introduced  himself  as  the  representative  of  the  mayor  of 
Florence,  who  “sends  regrets  that  he  cannot  be  here  him¬ 
self  but  wishes  me  to  give  Maestro  Damrosch  the  speech 
of  welcome.”  I  begged  him  to  excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes 
and  attired  myself  so  that  I  could  receive  the  mayor’s 
kind  welcome  in  a  more  fitting  garb  and  room. 

Our  concert  was  at  the  splendid  Politeama  Theatre,  a 
great  amphitheatre  with  fine  acoustics.  Albert  Spalding 
was  our  soloist,  and  as  he  had  been  virtually  brought  up 
in  Florence  and  the  people  there  had  watched  his  career 
with  eager  interest,  his  appearance  was  a  real  home¬ 
coming  and  the  greeting  affectionate  in  the  extreme. 

At  a  charming  reception  given  at  the  house  of  Albert’s 
father  after  the  concert,  I  met  the  historian  Ferrero  and  a 
delightful  acquaintance  from  previous  visits,  Mrs.  Janet 
Ross.  She  is  a  daughter  of  the  beautiful  Lady  Duff- 
Gordon,  and  when  she  was  a  child  George  Meredith  had 
occupied  a  cottage  on  her  father’s  estate  in  England.  Fte 
had  adored  her  and  it  was  said  that  she  had  been  his 
inspiration  for  Rose  in  “Richard  Feverel.”  I  had  met 
her  in  Florence  in  1913,  when  she  already  was  well  over 
seventy  and  a  woman  of  remarkable  intellectual  power 
and  physical  activity.  She  lives  in  a  delightful  old  villa 
with  walls  two  feet  thick  on  a  hill  below  Fiesole.  Boc- 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


305 


caccio  had  written  part  of  his  “ Decameron”  there  and 
the  house  was  filled  with  interesting  old  Italian  furniture. 
She  made  her  own  olive-oil  and  vermuth  on  her  farm  and 
sold  large  quantities  of  it  to  England.  When  I  admired 
some  exquisite  dining-room  chairs,  she  told  me  she  had 
found  them  in  Pisa  and  that  they  were  good  eighteenth- 
century  models.  She  said:  “I  have  a  little  Italian  car¬ 
penter  who  carves  wood  very  well  and  if  you  like  I  can 
have  these  copied  for  you  and  they  will  cost  you  very 
little.”  I  have  these  chairs  in  my  house  to-day  and  value 
them  doubly  as  having  come  to  me  through  the  good 
offices  of  this  interesting  lady. 

She  had  also  made  a  remarkable  collection  of  old 
Italian  stornelli,  which  she  had  heard  through  mingling 
with  the  Italian  peasants  and  farmers  in  Tuscany  and 
elsewhere  and  had  noted  down.  As  this  collection  num¬ 
bers  literally  hundreds  of  folk-songs,  many  of  them  dat¬ 
ing  back  centuries,  it  should  prove  valuable  to  the  con¬ 
noisseur. 

In  Parma,  the  following  day,  I  visited  the  Teatro  Far- 
nese.  It  is  the  oldest  theatre  in  Italy,  and  while  it  is  in  a 
somewhat  dilapidated  condition  and,  of  course,  no  longer 
used  for  performances,  it  is  fascinating  as  a  relic,  and  one 
can  well  imagine  what  splendid  pageants  and  dramatic 
cantatas  must  have  been  performed  there  before  the 
great  nobles  of  that  day  and  their  retinue.  The  Teatro 
Regio  seemed  to  me  the  most  beautiful  that  we  had  played 
in.  It  seated  over  two  thousand  people  and  we  marvelled 
that  so  small  a  town  as  Parma  should  be  the  proud  pos¬ 
sessor  of  such  a  home  for  music. 

The  heat  was  again  intense,  but  as  the  audience  were  in 
an  extremely  receptive  and  tumultuous  mood,  we  did  not 
mind  it,  and  the  orchestra  played  superbly.  I  was  sorry 


306 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


therefore  to  have  been  compelled  to  nip  in  the  bud  a  little 
plot  which  I  luckily  discovered  that  evening.  Sixteen  ad¬ 
venturous  young  members  of  the  orchestra  had  very 
quietly  decided  that  they  would  take  a  midnight  train 
for  Venice,  spend  a  happy  day  there  on  its  lagoons,  with 
perhaps  even  a  swim  on  the  Lido,  and  then  take  another 
night  train  for  Milan,  arriving  just  in  time  for  our  concert 
there.  Milan  is  an  important  musical  centre,  and  I  did 
not  wish  to  play  there  with  an  orchestra  partly  tired  out 
by  two  night  trips,  besides  the  strong  possibility  of  de¬ 
layed  Italian  trains,  which  operate  on  the  principle  of 
qui  va  piano,  va  sano,  ma  non  lontano .  I  therefore  had 
to  forbid  this  little  excursion,  although  I  sympathized 
strongly  with  our  men  for  wanting  to  carry  it  out. 

I  arrived  in  Milan  two  hours  ahead  of  the  orchestra 
and  was  met  at  the  station  by  a  committee  consisting  of 
Signor  Finci,  the  president  of  the  Milan  Symphony 
Society,  under  whose  auspices  we  were  to  play,  Cam- 
panari,  brother  of  my  old  friend  the  barytone,  and  hono¬ 
rary  secretary  of  the  Verdi  Home  for  Aged  Musicians,  the 
prefect  of  the  police,  and  several  others.  All  had  pale 
and  anxious  faces,  and  had  come  to  tell  me  that  there 
was  not  a  room  to  be  had  in  Milan,  that  several  hotels 
had  closed  their  doors  as  there  was  a  restaurant  and 
waiters’  strike,  and  that  they  wanted  to  consult  with  me 
what  had  better  be  done.  That  mischievous  strike  devil 
evidently  was  to  be  a  permanent  member  of  our  organi¬ 
zation  on  the  entire  tour.  I  retired  with  the  committee 
to  the  room  of  the  prefect  at  the  railroad  station  and  dis¬ 
cussed  various  plans,  although  in  the  back  of  my  mind 
was  the  firm  conviction  that  my  men  would  find  rooms, 
beds,  and  food  if  they  were  suddenly  dumped  in  the 
middle  of  the  desert  of  Sahara.  I  finally  asked  Cam- 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


307 


panari  if  there  were  any  spare  rooms  in  the  Verdi  Home 
for  Aged  Musicians,  and  he  informed  me  that  the  entire 
home  was  empty,  as  they  had  not  been  able  to  operate  it 
at  all  during  the  war,  owing  to  lack  of  funds.  There  were 
plenty  of  beds,  blankets,  and  sheets,  but  no  servants  of 
any  kind.  This  was  at  least  something,  and  I  thought 
that  my  young  men  would  not  at  all  mind  sleeping  in 
beds  that  were  intended  for  aged  musicians  and  doing 
their  own  chamber  work.  The  prefect  also  suggested 
several  empty  beds  in  the  city  hospital,  but  this  did  not 
look  to  me  so  inviting.  However,  I  finally  arranged  with 
them  to  meet  again  at  the  station  on  the  arrival  of  the 
orchestra  and  I  would  put  the  matter  before  them,  and 
then  let  them  go  forth  and  fare  for  themselves.  Any  one 
who  had  not  found  a  bed  should  return  to  the  station  and 
report  at  the  office  of  the  prefect,  who  would  then  see 
that  some  kind  of  accommodation  was  found.  This  plan 
was  carried  out  and  my  manager  reported  to  me  that  at 
the  final  hour  only  two  of  our  orchestra  reported  at  the 
station,  the  one  to  say  that  he  had  found  no  room  and 
the  other  that  he  had  two.  These  two  men  went  off  arm 
in  arm  therefore,  and  my  faith  in  the  orchestra  was  again 
abundantly  justified,  although  the  hotel  strike  here  was 
even  worse  than  in  Genoa.  I  was  quartered  with  my  fam¬ 
ily  at  the  Continental  Hotel  and,  with  the  exception  of  a 
few  toothless  old  hags,  who  made  a  pretense  of  taking 
care  of  the  rooms,  there  was  no  service  of  any  kind.  The 
principal  cause  of  the  strike  seems  to  have  been  a  reali¬ 
zation  on  the  part  of  hotel  employees  that  it  was  undig¬ 
nified  for  them  to  accept  tips,  especially  as  the  tipping 
system  produced  such  unequal  results,  the  chambermaid 
on  the  first  floor  of  a  hotel  receiving  often  ten  times  as 
much  in  tips  as  the  one  who  officiated  on  the  fourth 


308 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


floor.  They  therefore  demanded  that  a  tax  of  ten  to 
fifteen  per  cent  be  added  to  the  bills  of  travellers,  this 
amount  then  to  be  distributed  among  the  employees 
according  to  a  certain  schedule.  In  the  meantime  we 
sizzled  in  the  heat  and  suffered.  To  add  to  our  discom¬ 
fort,  there  was  a  great  scarcity  in  the  city  supply  of  water, 
and  if  one  wanted  a  bath  it  could  only  be  obtained  at  six 
o’clock  in  the  morning  or  after  ten  at  night. 

But  again  the  discipline  of  the  men  and  the  determina¬ 
tion  to  demonstrate  themselves  as  an  artistic  organiza¬ 
tion  manifested  itself  in  a  remarkable  way,  and  both  of 
our  concerts  were  superbly  played  and  enthusiastically 
received.  We  considered  Milan  one  of  the  most  impor¬ 
tant  cities  of  our  tour.  Its  opera  at  the  famous  La  Scala 
is  world-renowned,  and  of  recent  years,  especially  through 
the  efforts  of  Maestro  Toscanini,  a  highly  cultivated  audi¬ 
ence  for  symphonic  music  has  developed. 

Toscanini,  whom  I  had  known  and  often  admired  in 
America,  was  rehearsing  and  conducting  in  Padua. 
To  my  surprise  and  delight  he  took  a  night  train  from 
there  in  order  to  be  present  at  our  Sunday  afternoon 
concert  and  to  give  me  a  brotherly  greeting.  After  the 
concert  he  accompanied  me  to  the  railroad  station  where 
he  was  to  take  the  night  train  back  to  Padua.  As  we 
arrived  my  orchestra,  who  were  already  in  their  respec¬ 
tive  sleeping-cars,  recognized  him  and  with  a  great  roar 
of  welcome  gave  him  three  American  cheers. 

Our  three  days  in  Milan  had  been  very  busy  ones.  On 
Friday  afternoon  the  Ricordi  Music  Publishing  Company 
gave  us  a  reception,  showing  the  orchestra  through  their 
enormous  printing  works.  The  first  concert  was  given 
that  evening.  On  Saturday  the  mayor  and  commune  of 
Milan  gave  us  a  reception  with  a  visit  to  the  City  Museum 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


309 


at  the  Castello  Sforzesco.  This  was  followed  by  a  con¬ 
cert  given  for  us  by  the  excellent  municipal  band  in  the 
courtyard,  and  a  “tea”  which  consisted  of  all  manner  of 
sandwiches,  ices,  cakes,  and,  above  all,  innumerable  bot¬ 
tles  of  champagne.  We  were  all  glad  that  there  was  no 
concert  that  evening. 

After  the  Sunday  concert  a  number  of  motor-buses 
took  the  orchestra  and  musical  instruments  quickly  to 
the  station,  while  our  Italian  friends  stood  around  and 
marvelled  at  what  they  called  “American  efficiency,” 
and  we  rolled  out  of  Milan  and  Italy  on  our  way  to 
Strassbourg,  exceedingly  tired,  but  with  a  feeling  that 
we  had  brought  Italy  and  America  many  steps  nearer  to 
each  other  by  our  visit.  We  had  been  simply  over¬ 
whelmed  with  demonstrations  of  affection  from  the  mo¬ 
ment  we  arrived  in  Italy,  and  there  is  something  in  the 
almost  childlike  manner  in  which  the  Italians  demonstrate 
their  feelings  that  endeared  them  very  quickly  to  us.  They 
are  seething  with  vitality,  and  the  very  intensity  of  their 
emotions,  which  to  the  cooler  North  American  tempera¬ 
ment  sometimes  seems  exaggerated,  is  a  force  to  be  reck¬ 
oned  with  in  the  future  of  the  world.  While  their  civili¬ 
zation  is  the  oldest  in  Europe  they  seem  to  be  the  young¬ 
est  people  of  to-day,  and  in  my  profession  and  the  kindred 
arts  I  expect  great  things  from  the  Italian  people  as  soon 
as  the  dreadful  aftermath  of  the  World  War  shall  have 
been  cleared  away. 

I  was  much  interested  in  Strassbourg  and  Metz  in  the 
curious  mixture  of  German  and  French  civilization.  In 
Strassbourg  we  were  very  cordially  received  by  the  new 
director  of  the  Conservatory,  M.  Ropartz,  of  Nancy,  one 
of  France’s  most  distinguished  musicians. 

At  Metz  the  mayor  made  a  speech  of  welcome  and  with 


3io 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


a  group  of  citizens  gave  us  a  “vin  d’honneur”  after  the 
concert.  Both  cities  gave  us  audiences  evidently  accus¬ 
tomed  to  concerts  of  symphonic  music  and  with  a  fine 
appreciation  of  what  we  would  offer  them. 

On  the  public  square  in  Strassbourg  I  noticed  a  group 
of  citizens  excitedly  pointing  toward  a  steeple  on  the  op¬ 
posite  side  and,  Io  and  behold,  I  saw  a  stork,  the  first  one 
to  get  back  from  his  winter  sojourn  in  Africa  to  spend  the 
summer  in  his  native  haunts.  The  reader  will  wonder 
that  I  have  not  something  more  exciting  to  relate,  but  I 
confess  that  the  complete  freedom  from  the  official  and 
social  engagements  after  our  hectic  weeks  in  Italy  came 
like  a  heavenly  balm,  not  to  mention  the  agreeable  change 
of  living  again  in  a  hotel  with  real  waiters,  chambermaids, 
and  cooks  to  minister  to  one’s  comfort. 

I  looked  at  that  stork  and  suddenly  an  old  doggerel 
jumped  into  my  head  that  I  had  sung  with  other  children 
over  fifty  years  before,  and  which  begins: 

“Storch,  Storch,  Steiner,  mit  de  Iangen  Berner’’ — 

and  here  was  perhaps  a  descendant  of  the  very  bird 
whom  we  had  greeted  so  long  ago.  I  was  inclined  to 
become  sentimental  over  this  interesting  possibility,  but 
the  stork  flew  away  without  showing  any  reciprocal  in¬ 
terest  and  my  mood  did  not  last  long. 

We  returned  to  Paris  the  following  day,  and  on  the 
morning  of  June  4  started  in  a  special  train  to  Fontaine¬ 
bleau,  where  the  entire  orchestra  were  to  be  guests  of  the 
mayor  and  municipality  for  the  day. 

The  suggestions  which  I  had  made  to  Francis  Casa- 
desus  in  Paris  and  Chaumont  during  our  long  talks  in 
1918,  while  he  and  I  were  examining  the  two  hundred 
bandmasters  of  the  A.  E.  F.,  had  borne  quick  fruits. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


3” 

Casadesus  had  communicated  my  suggestion  of  a  summer 
school  for  American  musicians  to  his  very  musical  friend, 
M.  Fragnaud,  the  sous-prefet  of  Fontainebleau.  He  in 
turn  had  interested  M.  Bonnet,  the  mayor,  and  in  con¬ 
sequence  a  quick  decision  had  been  reached  that  the  sum¬ 
mer  school  should  be  placed  at  Fontainebleau  and  housed 
in  an  entire  wing  of  the  historic  Palais  de  Fontainebleau, 
which  would  be  donated  for  this  purpose  by  the  French 
Government.  I  was  delighted  at  this  happy  outcome, 
and,  as  the  people  concerned  evidently  wished  to  signal¬ 
ize  it  by  some  special  fete,  I  gladly  accepted  their  invi¬ 
tation  to  give  a  concert  there  with  our  orchestra  and 
make  this,  so  to  speak,  the  beginning  of  relations  which 
will,  I  hope,  help  materially  to  bring  France  and  America 
musically  closer  together  for  many  years  to  come. 

Many  French  musicians  and  dignitaries  were  on  the 
train  to  take  part  in  the  day’s  celebration.  There  were 
M.  Paul  Leon,  representing  the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts; 
Alfred  Cortot,  distinguished  pianist;  Mangeot,  editor  of 
the  Monde  Musicale  and  founder  of  the  Ecole  Normale  de 
Musique  in  Paris;  Francis  and  Henri  Casadesus,  Mile. 
Boulanger,  Albert  Bruneau,  composer  of  the  opera  “La 
Reve”;  M.  Dumesnil,  deputy  for  Fontainebleau,  and 
many  others. 

The  whole  town  had  been  declared  “en  fete.”  Every 
shop  was  closed  and  French  and  American  flags,  gaily 
intertwined,  festooned  all  the  principal  streets.  The 
street  leading  to  the  Mairie  was  lined  on  both  sides  by 
French  troops,  and  we  all  tried  to  look  as  if  we  were  dele¬ 
gates  to  the  Versailles  Conference  as  we  marched  to  the 
reception  of  the  mayor,  and  looked  at  this  martial  array. 

The  luncheon  which  followed  was  one  of  those  typical 
French  affairs  in  which  the  gay  was  charmingly  mingled 


312 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


with  the  more  serious  and  ceremonial.  M.  Dumesnil 
proved  himself  one  of  the  greatest  orators  I  have  ever 
heard  and  played  upon  every  emotion  of  the  human 
heart,  evoking  tears  and  laughter  with  the  voice  and 
diction  of  a  virtuoso. 

He  was  succeeded  by  M.  Bruneau  arising  and  sud¬ 
denly  addressing  me,  and  at  the  close  pinning  the  Legion 
d’Honneur  on  my  coat,  after  which,  to  the  huge  delight  of 
my  orchestra,  he,  in  true  French  fashion,  kissed  me  on  both 
cheeks.  It  is  very  agreeable  to  have  one’s  orchestra  pres¬ 
ent  while  such  honors  are  conferred,  as  their  approval  dem¬ 
onstrates  itself  in  most  noisy  fashion,  and  my  boys  know 
that  this  particular  decoration  is  as  much  theirs  as  mine. 

As  there  was  no  theatre  in  Fontainebleau  large  enough 
to  hold  the  huge  audience,  the  concert  was  given  in  the 
Menage  d’Artillerie,  which  had  been  hastily  converted  into 
a  concert  hall.  It  proved  excellent  for  this  purpose,  except 
that  as  soon  as  we  began  playing,  hundreds  of  birds, 
which  had  had  undisturbed  possession  of  the  rafters  and 
of  the  musical  privileges  of  this  building  for  years,  were 
evidently  disturbed  and  angered  by  our  intrusion.  They 
suddenly  flew  out  from  their  nests  and  burst  into  shrill 
songs  of  protest,  which  mingled,  not  without  interesting 
results,  with  the  harmonies  of  the  “New  World  Sym¬ 
phony,”  played  by  special  request  of  the  sous-prefet,  M. 
Fragnaud,  who  is  himself  an  excellent  amateur  oboe- 
player. 

In  the  front  rows  of  the  audience  were  hundreds  of 
school-children  who  had  been  dressed  “en  Americaine,” 
with  enormous  bows  and  sashes  composed  of  the  American 
stars  and  stripes.  That  there  were  several  hundred  of 
these  I  can  testify,  as  I  had  to  shake  hands  with  every 
one  of  them  after  the  concert. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


3i3 


The  following  day,  before  leaving  for  Belgium,  I  re¬ 
ceived  the  welcome  news  that  a  rather  disagreeable  mat¬ 
ter  concerning  our  three  concerts  at  the  Paris  Opera  had 
been  most  amicably  settled.  The  Opera  House,  which  is 
the  property  of  the  French  Government,  had  been  offered 
to  us  by  the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts  “free  of  rent,”  but 
we  were  to  pay  for  the  actual  expenses  of  light,  heat,  and 
service  incurred.  When  I  first  arrived  in  Paris  our  local 
manager  informed  us  that  the  Director  of  the  Opera,  who 
holds  a  lease  of  the  building,  intended  to  charge  us  thirty 
thousand  francs  for  his  “expenses.”  This  seemed  to  me 
excessive,  and  I  remonstrated  with  M.  Leon,  the  Director 
of  the  Beaux  Arts.  The  Director  of  the  Opera,  who  had 
lost  millions  of  francs  at  the  opera  during  the  war,  was  a 
man  of  wealth  to  whom  the  opera  was  more  or  less  of  a 
personal  toy,  but  he  evidently  wished  to  recoup  somewhat 
on  us,  for  he  argued  that,  inasmuch  as  he  might  have 
given  opera  performances  on  the  days  and  hours  when  we 
had  our  concerts,  we  should  be  charged  with  the  pro-rata 
expense  of  his  singers,  orchestra,  chorus,  and  ballet.  This 
argument,  however,  did  not  seem  valid  to  us,  as  since  time 
immemorial  there  had  never  been  any  opera  performances 
on  those  days  of  the  week.  I  presented  our  case  to  M. 
Leon  and  told  him  that  as  I  had  never  had  any  dealing 
or  arrangement  with  the  Director  of  the  Opera  but  only 
with  the  Ministere  des  Beaux  Arts,  I  was  compelled  to 
leave  the  matter  entirely  in  their  hands.  We  were  their 
guests,  and  if  they  felt  that  we  should  pay  thirty  thousand 
francs  for  “expenses”  we  would  most  certainly  do  so. 
The  results  were  most  satisfactory,  but  not  entirely  un¬ 
expected  by  me,  and  the  sum  which  we  finally  paid  was  a 
perfectly  fair  amount. 

We  went  to  Brussels  on  June  3  by  motor,  through  a  great 


3i4 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


part  of  the  devastated  regions  and  all  the  horror  and  mis¬ 
ery  of  destroyed  villages,  field  after  field  pock-marked  by 
shell  explosions  and  dreary  remains  of  a  few  stumps  of 
trees  where  had  been  acres  and  acres  of  forest. 

On  our  arrival  we  were  welcomed  with  open  arms  by 
our  ambassador,  Brand  Whitlock,  and  his  wife.  He  told 
me  that  but  two  weeks  before  he  had  been  suddenly  in¬ 
formed  that  we  could  not  play  at  the  Theatre  Royal  de  la 
Monnaie  because  a  socialist  organization  of  Brussels 
claimed  the  right  to  it  for  an  entertainment  of  their  own. 
There  had  been  a  mix-up  because  the  director  of  the  opera, 
who  had  promised  us  the  theatre,  had  died  and  the  new 
incumbent  claimed  to  have  no  knowledge  of  our  coming. 
They  intended  to  place  us  in  a  Flemish  theatre,  which  of 
course  did  not  have  the  dignity  of  the  Royal  Opera  House, 
and  Mr.  Whitlock  promptly  told  them  that,  as  we  were 
there  by  invitation  of  the  Belgian  Government  and  as  our 
coming  had  an  international  significance,  he  could  not 
permit  us  to  be  euchred  out  of  our  rightful  possession  of 
the  Theatre  de  la  Monnaie,  and  if  we  could  not  have 
that  he  would  telegraph  to  me  urging  us  to  cancel  the 
concert.  This  evidently  produced  results.  The  socialist 
organization  was  appealed  to,  and  immediately  and 
courteously  said  that  it  would  do  anything  for  an  Ameri¬ 
can  orchestra. 

The  same  lack  of  what  we  would  call  proper  manage¬ 
ment  of  concerts  seemed  to  exist  in  Brussels  as  in  many 
cities  of  France  and  Italy.  Large  advertisements,  such 
as  fill  the  amusement  columns  of  American  papers,  are 
hardly  ever  used.  Two  lines  inserted  only  once  or  twice 
are  the  rule.  Reading  notices,  giving  the  programme  or 
other  information  regarding  the  concert,  are  printed  only 
if  paid  for  at  so  much  a  line.  Small  posters,  which  are 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


3i5 


pasted  on  street  corners  for  a  week  or  two,  are  almost  the 
only  advertising  indulged  in. 

Transfer  companies — such  as  in  our  country  meet  a 
musical  or  theatrical  organization  at  the  station  with  a 
specified  number  of  trucks  to  carry  the  musical  baggage 
or  scenery  to  the  theatre — are  not  known.  We  had  put 
this  important  part  of  our  tour  into  the  hands  of  Thomas 
Cook  and  Sons,  and  their  representative,  on  the  arrival 
of  the  train,  would  negotiate  with  this  or  that  driver 
lounging  around  the  station  and  lazily  looking  for  jobs.  In 
Italy  the  porters  again  and  again  simply  refused  to  trans¬ 
port  our  stuff  because  the  weather  was  too  hot,  and  they 
would  only  begin  at  six  or  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening, 
when  thirty  little  handcarts,  pushed  by  as  many  men, 
would  carry  the  musical  instruments  to  the  theatre. 
Luckily  concerts  in  Italy  begin  at  nine  or  nine-thirty,  so 
we  always  managed  in  one  way  or  another  to  get  our  in¬ 
struments  transported.  Several  times,  however,  even 
soldiers  and  military  camions  were  bribed  into  service. 
This  slovenliness,  which  is  maddening  to  an  American,  is 
so  universal  in  Europe,  especially  since  the  war,  that  one 
marvels  how  anything  can  be  accomplished;  and  yet  with 
the  exception  of  places  where  strikes  interfered  we  got 
along,  even  though  we  were  sometimes  wild  with  anxiety 
and  foolishly  furious  at  what  we  considered  to  be  their 
national  characteristics. 

Everybody  in  Belgium,  however,  seems  to  read  the 
posters,  for  the  demand  for  seats  in  Brussels  was  so  great 
that  we  could  have  filled  the  little  opera-house  twice  over. 
Its  acoustics  are  marvellous,  and  the  strings  vibrate  like 
an  old  Cremona  violin.  They  had  specially  requested 
that  the  concert  should  be  purely  symphonic  and  without 
any  soloist.  I  therefore  gave  them  the  lovely  Mozart 


3 1 6 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


“Jupiter”  Symphony  and  the  Cesar  Franck  D  Minor. 
Franck  had  been  born  in  Liege,  and  I  wished  to  demon¬ 
strate  to  them  our  love  and  understanding  of  this  noble 
musician.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  played  before  an 
audience  more  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of  music.  As  a 
special  compliment  to  Brussels  we  played  an  Adagio  for 
strings  by  Lekeu,  a  modern,  highly  talented,  young  Bel¬ 
gian  composer,  who  unfortunately  had  died  at  the  age  of 
twenty-four.  The  Adagio  is  a  work  of  tender,  melancholy 
beauty,  and  sounded  so  exquisite  in  this  building  that 
the  players  and  I  were  intensely  moved  by  it  during  the 
performance.  This  emotion  was  evidently  communicated 
to  the  audience,  so  that  at  the  close  their  applause  could 
not  be  quieted,  and  I  finally  had  to  take  the  score  of  the 
composition  from  my  desk  and  point  to  it  in  silent  panto¬ 
mime. 

After  the  concert,  as  I  was  preparing  to  leave  the  thea¬ 
tre,  two  ladies  came  toward  me  with  an  old  man  who 
proved  to  be  the  father  of  Guillaume  Lekeu.  He  tried  to 
thank  me  for  our  playing  of  his  son’s  composition,  but 
broke  down  completely  as  the  tears  poured  down  his  face. 

The  following  day  at  Antwerp  I  saw  again  to  my  great 
delight  the  famous  old  tenor,  Van  Dyk,  with  whom  I  had 
given  many  a  Wagner  opera  during  our  engagement  at 
the  Metropolitan  with  the  Maurice  Grau  Opera  Com¬ 
pany.  His  villa,  near  Antwerp,  had  been  occupied  by  a 
German  general  and  his  staff  during  the  four  years  of  the 
war.  They  had  drunk  up  his  entire  wine-cellar,  consist¬ 
ing  of  many  hundred  bottles  of  choice  vintages,  and  had 
also  removed  every  bit  of  copper  from  his  door-knobs 
and  kitchen.  Otherwise  they  had  left  his  house  intact, 
and,  with  imperturbable  good  humor  and  courage,  Van 
Dyk  had  taken  up  again  the  work  of  gaining  an  existence 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


3i7 


for  his  family.  Twice  a  week  he  went  to  Brussels,  where 
he  had  an  interesting  class  in  dramatic  singing  at  the 
Royal  Conservatory,  and  besides  this  he  was  busily  en¬ 
gaged  as  a  director  of  an  insurance  company. 

In  Antwerp,  as  well  as  in  Liege  and  Ghent,  we  found 
the  same  discriminating  and  educated  audiences  as  in 
Brussels. 

Hardly  anywhere  did  we  see  the  ravages  of  war,  and 
what  little  there  were  were  being  quickly  repaired  by  the 
industrious  inhabitants. 

We  left  Belgium  on  June  10,  to  enter  Holland,  playing  at 
The  Hague  that  evening  and  in  Amsterdam  the  day  after. 

In  Holland  our  American  diplomatic  representative, 
William  Phillips,  Minister  to  The  Hague,  had  been  active 
in  assuring  us  a  welcome.  He  was  an  old  friend  and  had 
invited  not  only  the  Queen  Mother,  who  is  the  only 
musical  member  of  the  royal  household,  but  a  distin¬ 
guished  party  of  nearly  one  hundred,  including  all  the 
diplomatic  representatives  and  the  highest  officials  of  the 
court  and  governments,  to  be  his  guests  at  the  concert. 

After  the  first  part  he  introduced  me  to  the  Queen 
Mother,  who  proved  to  be  very  charming  and  much  in¬ 
terested  in  music,  and  who  also  possessed  that  delightful 
royal  quality  of  putting  you  “at  your  ease.”  This  con¬ 
sists  in  asking  a  question  and  then  not  waiting  for  you  to 
answer,  but  answering  it  in  all  its  possibilities  and  bear¬ 
ings  herself.  Conversation  is  thus  made  rather  one-sided 
but  agreeable,  even  though  all  the  brilliant  things  one 
might  have  said  remain  unuttered. 

After  the  concert  the  entire  distinguished  party  as¬ 
sembled  at  the  legation  for  a  delicious  supper,  at  which  I 
met  a  great  many  charming  Dutch  ladies  who,  fortu¬ 
nately  for  me,  spoke  English  or  French. 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


3*8 

The  next  day  Mr.  Phillips  motored  me  to  Amsterdam. 
There  the  members  of  the  local  orchestra  immediately 
poured  into  the  willing  ears  of  my  men  dreadful  stories  of 
local  jealousy  of  our  coming,  that  several  of  the  news¬ 
papers  had  been  told  to  criticise  us  severely,  and  that  all 
the  adherents  of  the  local  orchestra  had  ostentatiously 
decided  to  absent  themselves  from  our  concert.  Very 
little  of  this  proved  to  be  true.  The  huge  hall  in  which 
we  played,  the  Concertgebow,  has  a  stage  perched  up  so 
high  that  the  people  in  the  parquet  literally  have  to 
strain  their  necks  to  see  the  performers,  and  the  reverber¬ 
ation  of  sound  is  excessive.  The  hall  seats  three  thousand 
people,  and  there  were  not  more  than  fourteen  hundred 
at  our  concert.  However,  they  certainly  made  up  in  en¬ 
thusiasm  what  they  lacked  in  numbers.  All  previous 
notions  of  the  phlegm  of  the  Dutch  people  were  com¬ 
pletely  dissipated.  Not  being  a  prima  donna,  I  did  not 
keep  count  of  the  many  times  I  was  recalled  after  the 
“Eroica”  Symphony,  but,  as  I  had  to  march  down  and 
up  a  platform  of  about  fifty  steps  each  time,  the  exercise 
in  connection  with  it  was  considerable.  The  newspapers 
next  morning,  in  spite  of  all  the  dark  rumors,  were  en¬ 
thusiastic  in  our  praise  and  generous  in  their  comparison 
of  our  orchestra  with  their  own  splendid  organization. 

London  marked  the  last  lap  of  our  musical  race  through 
Europe.  We  stayed  a  week  and  gave  five  concerts,  four 
at  Queens’  Hall  on  June  14,  15,  16,  and  19,  and  one  on 
June  20  at  the  huge  Royal  Albert  Hall.  The  lucky  star 
which  had  accompanied  us  during  the  entire  tour  shone 
for  us  with  steadfast  light  during  this  last  week.  The 
orchestra  never  played  better  and  the  newspapers  heartily 
echoed  the  reception  we  received  from  the  public. 

I  had  not  conducted  in  London  since  a  concert  men- 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


3i9 


tioned  elsewhere  in  these  reminiscences,  given  at  Princes’ 
Hah  by  Ovide  Musin  in  1888,  when  I  was  but  twenty-six 
years  of  age.  Since  then  great  changes  have  come  over 
the  musical  life  of  England.  At  that  time  music  was  to  a 
great  extent  in  the  hands  of  foreigners,  and  one  has  only 
to  see  the  old  pictures  by  DuMaurier  in  Punch  to  realize 
that  the  musician  in  English  drawing-rooms  was  generally 
a  long-haired  German  or  Italian.  Hans  Richter  was  the 
great  popular  conductor  in  London  and  there  were  many 
foreigners  in  the  British  orchestras. 

Since  then  the  Anglicization  of  music  had  been  going 
on  rapidly,  thanks  principally  to  great  music-schools 
such  as  the  Royal  College  of  Music,  under  Sir  Charles 
Villiers  Stanford  and  Sir  Hugh  Allen,  and  the  Royal 
Academy  of  Music,  under  Sir  Alexander  MacKenzie. 
These  schools  educate  great  numbers  of  orchestral  mu¬ 
sicians,  and  to-day  the  personnel  of  British  orchestras  is 
composed  almost  entirely  of  native-born.  Many  of  us 
consider  Sir  Edward  Elgar  the  greatest  symphonic  com¬ 
poser  since  Brahms,  and  his  education  has  been  alto¬ 
gether  British.  A  group  of  English  conductors,  of  whom 
Sir  Henry  Wood  is  the  dean  and  Albert  Coates  and  Eugene 
Goosens  among  the  most  gifted,  have  made  for  them¬ 
selves  an  international  reputation.  England  has  now  the 
material  for  a  strong  national  musical  life.  With  such 
conductors  as  she  possesses  and  her  splendid  orchestral 
material,  her  orchestras  would  soon  rival  those  of  Amer¬ 
ica  if  her  citizens  would  give  them  the  same  generous 
support  which  our  organizations  receive,  but  in  this  re¬ 
spect  the  condition  of  London  is  very  much  what  it 
was  in  New  York  preceding  and  during  the  first  half  of 
my  career. 

Her  orchestras  are  to  a  great  extent  co-operative.  The 


320 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


concerts  are  projected  and  given  by  the  members  of  the 
orchestra  and  they  divide  the  profits  among  themselves. 
These  profits  are  exceedingly  small  and  do  not  really  pay 
them  for  the  time  given  to  the  rehearsals  and  concerts. 
The  London  Symphony,  for  instance,  gives  only  eight 
concerts  during  the  winter,  and  rarely  has  more  than  three 
rehearsals  to  a  concert.  In  consequence  of  this,  while  the 
players  have  developed  a  great  facility  in  reading  at  sight 
and  making  the  most  of  the  limited  rehearsal  time,  the 
results  cannot  be  as  finely  worked  out  as  is  possible  in  the 
generously  endowed  orchestras  of  America,  which  as¬ 
semble  their  players  every  morning  for  rehearsal  and  give 
more  than  one  hundred  symphonic  concerts  during  a 
winter. 

We  lay  great  stress  on  unanimity  of  bowing,  for  proper 
phrasing  can  only  be  secured  if  the  sixteen  first  violins, 
for  instance,  who  have  to  play  a  phrase  in  unison,  play 
as  one.  To  the  educated  ear  there  is  a  great  difference 
in  the  effect  if  one  or  two  or  more  notes  are  played  on 
the  same  bow  or  if  a  phrase  is  begun  with  an  up  or  a  down 
bow.  Generally  speaking,  this  unanimity  in  our  playing 
impressed  and  delighted  our  London  audiences  and  critics, 
but  one  of  the  latter  was  evidently  annoyed  by  it  as  he 
began  his  analysis  of  our  concert  with  the  head-line:  f 4 Or¬ 
chestra  Too  Perfect  to  be  Good.”  His  eye  had  evidently 
been  accustomed  to  the  more  “free  and  easy”  bowing  at 
some  of  their  own  concerts,  and  he  thought  that  a  more 
emotionally  inspired  effect  was  produced  if  the  individual 
member  of  the  orchestra  is  not  restricted  by  too  much 
discipline.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  however,  that  a 
good  conductor  must  guard  himself  from  the  temptation 
to  make  a  god  out  of  technic,  which  should,  after  all,  be 
merely  a  means  to  an  end. 


THE  EUROPEAN  TOUR 


321 


Because  of  our  undoubted  superiority  in  orchestras  and 
opera  we  cannot,  however,  claim  to  be  a  more  musical 
people  than  the  British.  Their  love  and  cultivation  of 
choral  music  is  far  greater  than  ours  and  they  have  a 
small  group  of  composers  whose  work  is  more  important 
and  interesting  than  the  aggregate  we  can  as  yet  produce. 

Augustus  Littleton  and  his  friends  arranged  many  af¬ 
fairs  for  our  pleasure,  among  them  a  ceremonial  luncheon 
at  the  Mansion  House  by  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 
This  luncheon  was  attended  also  by  the  American  am¬ 
bassador,  Mr.  Davis,  Viscount  Bryce,  and  many  of  the 
foremost  English  musicians.  My  orchestra  was  hugely 
delighted  and  impressed  with  the  quaint  mediaeval  cere¬ 
monies,  the  gorgeous  uniforms  and  liveries,  and  the  prod¬ 
igal  hospitality  displayed  by  our  kind  host.  As  a  mark 
of  special  friendliness  toward  the  New  York  Symphony 
Orchestra  and  its  first  visit  to  Great  Britain  I  was  made  a 
member  of  the  “  WorshipfuII  Company  of  Musicians,” 
founded  by  James  I  in  1604,  and  was  presented  with  the 
silver  medal  of  that  ancient  organization. 

Our  ambassador  proved  himself  just  as  able  to  discourse 
eloquently  on  the  importance  of  music  as  on  any  other 
theme  which  might  tend  to  strengthen  cultural  bonds  be¬ 
tween  the  two  nations.  Both  he  and  his  wife  had  evi¬ 
dently  endeared  themselves  to  the  English  people,  and 
many  were  the  regrets  when,  with  the  change  of  party  in 
Washington,  he  tendered  his  resignation. 

Throughout  the  luncheon  Lord  Bryce  beamed  his  ap¬ 
proval  of  the  proceedings,  as  he  had  given  nearly  all  of 
his  energies  during  the  later  years  of  his  life  toward  a 
better  understanding  between  the  two  English-speaking 
countries. 

The  orchestra  sailed  for  America  on  the  Olympic  on 


322 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


the  Tuesday  following  our  last  concert,  and  I  bade  them 
good-by  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth;  they  had  done 
such  honor  to  our  president,  Mr.  Flagler,  to  our  country, 
and  to  their  conductor.  During  the  entire  tour  of  seven 
weeks  there  had  not  been  one  lapse  from  perfect  disci¬ 
pline,  a  discipline  largely  self-imposed.  Each  one  had 
felt  his  responsibility  and  had  acted  accordingly.  Their 
playing  had  been  at  high-water  mark  continually  and 
they  had  borne  the  inevitable  fatigues  and  annoyances  of 
constant  travel  with  unfailing  good  humor.  On  the  other 
hand,  their  delights  had  been  many.  They  had  seen  the 
great  art  treasures  and  scenic  beauties  of  five  countries, 
and  with  that  quick  perception  which  is  one  of  the  char¬ 
acteristics  of  American  life,  they  had  taken  full  advantage 
of  their  opportunities.  If  they  gave  of  their  best  with 
both  hands,  Europe  certainly  returned  with  equal  prod¬ 
igality,  and  there  is  not  one  of  my  men  who  would  not 
jump  at  the  chance  to  repeat  our  experiences  at  the  first 
opportunity,  naturally  still  further  extending  the  tour  to 
include  Germany,  Austria,  Poland,  and  Czecho-SIovakia. 
We  are  still  somewhat  shy  of  Russia,  however,  as  the  re¬ 
ports  which  my  Russian  musicians  get  from  their  former 
country  are  too  dismal  and  uninviting. 


XVII 


WOMEN  IN  MUSICAL  AFFAIRS 

In  Europe  music  sprang  from  the  ground  and  it  is  the 
folk-songs  and  folk-dances  of  the  peasant  that  have 
gradually — refined  and  developed  in  the  hands  of  the 
great  composers — worked  their  way  upward  and  become 
the  possession  and  delight  of  the  cultured  classes. 

In  this  country  we  have  no  peasantry,  and  what  slight 
remains  of  folk-songs  and  folk-dances  we  possess,  apart 
from  the  music  of  the  negro,  have  only  recently  been 
dug  out  of  the  isolated  mountain  fastnesses  of  Kentucky 
and  Tennessee.  These  are  generally  of  British  origin 
and  cannot  be  considered  as  having  been  part  and  parcel 
of  our  national  life.  As  against  the  rich  subsoil  of  the 
folk-songs  of  Germany,  Bohemia,  Russia,  France,  and 
Scotland  we  can  show  but  the  thinnest  artificial  layer  of 
music,  and  this  has  been  created  and  carefully  nurtured 
by  a  small  educated  class. 

The  dreary  social  life  of  the  early  Puritan  settlers  and 
their  frowning  attitude  toward  the  joys  of  life  further  re¬ 
tarded  the  growth  of  the  arts  among  us. 

I  do  not  think  there  has  ever  been  a  country  whose 
musical  development  has  been  fostered  so  almost  exclu¬ 
sively  by  women  as  America. 

Musical  education  began  among  the  well-to-do  classes 
who  could  afford  to  engage  the  European  musicians  who 
immigrated  to  America  to  teach  their  daughters — but 
not,  alas,  their  sons.  A  strong  feeling  existed  that  music 
was  essentially  an  effeminate  art,  and  that  its  cultiva- 

323 


324 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


tion  by  a  man  took  away  that  much  from  his  manliness 
and,  above  all,  made  him  unfit  to  worship  at  the  most 
sacred  shrine  of  business.  I  am  speaking  now  of  fifty 
years  ago.  Conditions  have  improved  since  that  time, 
but  not  sufficiently  as  yet  to  produce  normal  and  healthy 
conditions  regarding  the  civilization  of  our  people. 

Women’s  musical  clubs  began  to  form  in  many  a  vil¬ 
lage,  town,  and  city,  and  these  clubs  became  the  active 
and  efficient  nucleus  of  the  entire  musical  life  of  the 
community,  but,  alas,  again  principally  the  feminine 
community.  It  is  to  these  women’s  clubs  that  the  man¬ 
agers  turn  for  fat  guarantees  for  appearances  of  their 
artists,  and  it  is  before  audiences  of  whom  seventy-five 
per  cent  are  women  that  these  artists  disport  themselves. 

The  result  of  this  has  been  that  the  cultural  life  of 
American  women  has  often  been  absolutely  a  thing  apart 
from  their  relations  with  their  men-folk.  It  has  become 
accepted  that  of  course  men  do  not  and  need  not  share 
the  women’s  interest  in  the  arts;  and  while  business  does 
not  perhaps  monopolize  the  American  man  in  quite  as 
unhealthy  a  fashion  as  in  former  years,  the  principal 
change  which  has  been  brought  about  is  the  introduction 
of  golf,  at  least  an  occupation  in  which  men  and  women 
may  share.  What  a  pity  that  the  elusive  ball  is  not  com¬ 
posed  of  a  little  Beethoven  and  Brahms  instead  of  the 
mysterious  mixture  of  concrete  and  gutta-percha,  and 
that  family  life,  which  is  the  very  fortress  of  civilization, 
cannot  make  use  of  the  cultivation  of  music  as  one  of  the 
strongest  ties  to  bind  husband  and  wife,  sons  and  daugh¬ 
ters  together! 

Some  of  us  are  too  prone  to  look  upon  modern  plumb¬ 
ing,  telephones,  and  motor-cars  as  evidences  of  high 
civilization  or  even  culture,  when  they  are  really  only 


WOMEN  IN  MUSICAL  AFFAIRS 


325 


more  or  less  agreeable  conveniences  which  minister  to  our 
comfort  but  not  to  our  heart  or  head. 

In  Europe  men  and  women  share  more  equally  in  the 
love  and  cultivation  of  music,  and  the  emotional  and  per¬ 
sonal  attitude  of  the  women  is  offset  by  the  more  imper¬ 
sonal  and  mental  attitude  of  the  men.  The  result  of  this 
is  shown  in  audiences  in  which  neither  sex  predominates 
and,  above  all,  in  the  cultivation  of  chamber-music  at 
home  in  which  professionals  and  amateurs,  men  and 
women,  participate  to  their  mutual  pleasure  and  develop¬ 
ment.  Nothing  more  charming  can  be  imagined  than  such 
family  evenings  of  music,  during  which  the  players  in¬ 
dulge  themselves  in  the  string  quartets  and  piano  trios 
of  Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  Brahms,  with  perhaps  a  small 
audience  of  enthusiasts  composed  of  other  members  of 
the  family  and  half  a  dozen  friends  who  afterward  all 
join  in  a  jolly  supper  of  bread  and  cold  meats,  together 
with  a  good  bottle  of  wine  or  beer. 

My  father  carried  this  lovely  custom  into  the  New 
World,  and  I  owe  almost  my  entire  education  in  chamber- 
music  to  the  Sunday  afternoons  at  his  house,  the  tranquil 
and  spiritual  atmosphere  of  which  is  unforgetable. 

A  few  years  ago  a  meeting  was  held  in  the  mayor’s 
office  at  City  Hall  at  which  I  had  been  asked  to  speak 
in  behalf  of  good  music  for  the  people  on  Sunday  after¬ 
noons  and  evenings.  A  clergyman  from  Brooklyn  had 
made  a  tremendous  appeal  against  any  Sunday  recrea¬ 
tions  and  wanted  the  aldermen  to  revive  the  old  blue 
laws  of  two  hundred  years  ago.  The  room  was  crowded 
with  people,  and  when  I  spoke  of  what  the  chamber-music 
on  Sunday  afternoons  at  my  father’s  house  had  meant 
to  me  as  a  boy,  this  audience  broke  into  such  enthusiastic 
applause  that  there  was  no  mistaking  the  general  atti- 


326 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


tude,  and  my  Sunday  symphony  concerts,  which  I  was 
the  first  to  inaugurate  in  New  York,  have  only  once  been 
interfered  with  by  municipal  authorities. 

Some  American  women  have  realized  the  false  and  one¬ 
sided  condition  of  musical  culture  in  our  country  and  have 
sought  to  remedy  it  by  encouraging  their  sons  to  take  up 
the  study  of  some  musical  instrument,  but  it  has  been  up¬ 
hill  work,  as  the  general  sentiment  of  the  country  has  not 
yet  been  sufficiently  awakened.  Plato  considered  the 
study  and  appreciation  of  music  an  educational  neces¬ 
sity  for  the  young  Athenian,  but  such  schools  as  Groton, 
Saint  Paufs,  and  Saint  Mark’s,  for  instance,  have  not  yet 
admitted  music  to  their  regular  curriculum,  and  in  so  far 
as  it  is  studied  there  it  is  considered  rather  an  outside 
privilege  with  which  the  school  course  has  no  official 
connection.  Among  the  boys  the  necessity  for  excelling 
in  football  or  baseball  is  so  carefully  and  consistently  in¬ 
sisted  upon  that  almost  the  entire  time  left  from  school 
hours  is  devoted  to  these  sports,  and  the  boy  who  wants 
to  continue  the  study  of  a  musical  instrument,  which  a 
fond  mother  has  perhaps  begun  with  him  before  he  en¬ 
tered  the  school,  is  looked  upon  by  the  other  boys  as  a 
sissy.  The  standard  of  personal  conduct  set  in  these 
schools  is  high,  but  the  tendency  seems  to  be  to  make 
the  boys  as  like  each  other  as  possible.  Many  of  them,  if 
not  discouraged,  would  develop  decided  artistic  talent, 
but  individuality  and  independence  of  thinking,  which 
should  be  the  end  and  aim  of  all  teaching,  is  often  frowned 
upon,  and  the  results  only  contribute  still  further  to  the 
monotony  of  our  social  life,  in  which  the  courage  to  be 
one’s  self  is  submerged  in  the  desire  to  be  exactly  like 
every  one  else. 

The  public  schools  of  our  country,  however,  show  a 


WOMEN  IN  MUSICAL  AFFAIRS 


327 


much  more  intelligent  attitude  than  formerly;  and,  while 
the  time  allowed  for  singing  and  the  study  of  the  begin¬ 
nings  of  music  is  still  all  too  short,  music  is  taught  to  the 
boys  as  well  as  to  the  girls.  The  singing  of  the  children 
has  greatly  improved,  and  in  many  cities  school  orches¬ 
tras  have  been  formed,  which  the  boys  and  girls  enjoy 
immensely  and  in  many  of  which  music  of  good  charac¬ 
ter  is  studied. 

In  Los  Angeles  and  Berkeley,  California,  I  heard  some 
excellent  school  orchestras,  and  in  Dayton,  Ohio,  Mrs. 
Talbot  has  interested  herself  personally  in  this  movement 
with  great  enthusiasm  and  excellent  results. 

In  New  York,  my  brother  Frank,  while  supervisor  of 
music  in  the  public  schools,  effected  a  complete  reform  in 
the  teaching  of  the  children  and  succeeded  in  interesting 
the  authorities  to  give  music  a  more  important  position. 
The  singing  improved  immensely  and  since  his  retirement 
Mr.  Gartlan,  T  is  successor,  has  continued  the  good  work. 
I  have  several  times  used  choruses  of  a  thousand  school 
children  at  the  music  festivals  of  the  Oratorio  Society 
in  the  production  of  such  works  as  Pierne’s  exquisite  “The 
Crusade  of  the  Children”  and  “The  Children  of  Bethle¬ 
hem,”  and  the  children  sang  the  three-part  harmonies  of 
their  music  with  such  purity  and  exquisite  quality  of  tone 
as  to  bring  happy  tears  to  the  eyes  of  the  audience. 

School  orchestras  have  been  formed  all  over  the  city, 
and  once  a  year  I  take  my  entire  orchestra  to  one  of  the 
large  auditoriums  of  the  public  high  schools  and  for  two 
thousand  little  would-be  orchestra  musicians  we  play  a 
programme  composed  of  the  music  they  have  been  study¬ 
ing  during  the  winter.  We  never  play  before  a  more  en¬ 
thusiastic  and  delightful  audience. 

Thirty-one  years  ago  I  gave  the  first  orchestral  concert 


328 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


for  children,  and  twenty-five  years  ago  my  brother  Frank 
founded  the  Young  People’s  Symphony  Concerts,  which 
were  designed  to  introduce  the  beauties  of  orchestral 
music  to  children,  and  in  a  short  explanatory  talk  to 
unravel  its  mysteries  of  construction  and  demonstrate 
the  tone  colors  of  the  different  instruments  of  the  or¬ 
chestra.  These  concerts  have  proved  an  enormous  suc¬ 
cess  and  of  great  importance  for  the  education  of  the 
coming  generation.  When  my  brother  retired  from 
public  work  in  order  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  the 
direction  of  the  Institute  of  Musical  Art  I  took  over  these 
concerts,  and  have  since  added  another  course  intended 
exclusively  for  little  children  from  seven  to  twelve  years 
of  age.  The  audiences  are  truly  remarkable.  The  faces 
of  the  children  are  aglow  with  interest  and  excitement, 
and  when  I  sit  down  at  the  piano  after  playing  an  overture 
with  the  orchestra  and,  repeating  some  melodic  phrase 
from  it,  ask  them,  “  Which  instrument  played  this  mel¬ 
ody?”  their  little  voices  ring  out  from  all  over  the  hall  in 
high,  shrill  accents,  like  little  pistol-shots,  “The  oboe! 
•The  oboe!  The  trumpet!”  Then  I  let  all  those  who 
think  it  was  the  oboe  raise  their  hands,  and  if  they  are 
right  great  is  their  triumph,  and  if  they  are  wrong  equally 
great  is  their  chagrin.  Generally  they  are  right ! 

On  my  orchestral  tours  I  have  several  times  given  such 
children’s  concerts  on  the  afternoon  preceding  the  regular 
evening  symphony,  and  while  two  such  concerts  in  one 
day  are  a  great  exertion,  the  children’s  especially  de¬ 
manding  a  great  output  of  vitality  in  order  to  keep  their 
interest,  I  have  felt  more  than  repaid  by  the  results;  in 
many  of  the  cities  my  work  in  this  direction  has  been 
continued  by  the  local  orchestras  or  musical  clubs  (again 
the  women !),  and  with  the  happiest  results. 


WOMEN  IN  MUSICAL  AFFAIRS 


329 


In  New  York  also  women  devoted  to  music  have  greatly 
contributed  toward  its  development,  but  occasionally  the 
result  of  their  efforts  has  not  been  so  beneficial.  Not  so 
long  ago  a  handsome  but  incompetent  foreign  musican 
(I  will  not  disclose  any  name  or  dates  in  this  story)  came 
to  New  York  and  enlisted  the  sympathies  of  a  few  enthusi¬ 
astic  women.  As  many  women  need  some  personality  on 
which  to  centre  their  devotion  to  art,  they  decided  that 
New  York  should  have  this  particular  gentleman  to  di¬ 
rect  its  symphonic  future.  The  American  business  man 
is  proverbially  good-natured  to  his  womenkind  and  ready 
to  pour  out  money  for  music  provided  he  is  not  com¬ 
pelled  to  listen  to  it,  and  so  these  ladies  gathered  a  huge 
fund  with  which  to  give  a  series  of  orchestral  concerts. 
The  amount  was  large  enough  to  maintain  a  good  sym¬ 
phony  orchestra  in  proper  hands  for  an  entire  winter, 
but  in  this  instance  was  to  be  expended  on  six  concerts 
only.  The  handsome  young  foreigner  gave  his  first  con¬ 
cert,  which  was  a  failure  so  complete  and  dismal — he 
being  not  only  without  any  reputation  but  with  hardly 
any  experience  in  work  of  this  kind — that  even  his  little 
group  of  adorers  became  appalled  and  proposed  to  can¬ 
cel  the  rest  of  the  concerts.  One  lady,  however,  who  had 
her  own  special  favorite  conductor,  suggested  that  a  com¬ 
plete  disgrace  might  be  averted  if  her  protege  were  in¬ 
vited  to  conduct  the  remaining  concerts.  As  he  was  an 
excellent  artist  and  thoroughly  routined  in  the  handling 
of  orchestral  players  the  results  were  so  good  and,  above 
all,  such  a  contrast  to  the  dire  tragedy  of  the  first  con¬ 
cert  that  the  enthusiastic  lady  devotee  saw  her  opportu¬ 
nity  and  suggested  that  a  new  orchestra  should  be  formed 
for  the  following  winter,  the  concerts  of  which  should  be 
conducted  by  the  man  who  had  saved  the  situation  for 


330 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


them.  New  York  had  already  an  average  during  the  win¬ 
ter  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  symphonic  concerts  by  the  New 
York  Philharmonic,  the  New  York  Symphony,  the  Bos¬ 
ton  Symphony,  and  the  Philadelphia  Orchestra,  and  it 
would  seem  from  this  that  the  symphonic  needs  of  our 
public  were  already  more  than  amply  supplied;  but  an  en¬ 
thusiastic  woman,  especially  when  driven  by  devotion  for 
some  pet  artist,  refuses  to  recognize  practical  conditions, 
and  so  this  little  group  proceeded  to  gather  more  funds, 
amounting  to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars,  in  order 
to  put  the  new  orchestra  properly  on  its  feet. 

Their  first  difficulty  was  to  find  good  players.  There 
are  never  very  many  first-class  symphonic  players  to  be 
found.  Not  only  do  the  two  old-established  New  York 
orchestras  employ  about  a  hundred  players  each,  but  the 
orchestras  of  other  cities  come  to  New  York  to  fill  their 
vacancies.  For  years  the  Philharmonic,  the  New  York 
Symphony,  and  other  out-of-town  orchestras  had  a  gen¬ 
tleman’s  agreement  that  they  would  not  steal  each  oth¬ 
er’s  players,  but  this  new  organization  immediately  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  take  thirty-seven  from  the  Philharmonic  by 
offering  them  immensely  higher  salaries.  They  did  not 
take  a  single  player  from  the  New  York  Symphony  Or¬ 
chestra  because,  as  they  vowed,  of  their  great  personal 
respect  for  me,  but  I  think  it  was  partly  because  we  hap¬ 
pened  to  have  a  two-year  contract  with  all  our  men 
which  bound  them  to  us  very  effectively  for  another 
season.  They  filled  their  ranks  further  from  members 
of  the  Boston  Orchestra  and  from  other  out-of-town  or¬ 
ganizations,  and  then  proceeded  on  their  first  regular 
season  as  a  New  York  Orchestra  with  loud  protestations 
that  New  York  at  last  had  an  organization  worthy  of  the 
metropolis.  This  orchestra  carried  on  its  existence  for 


WOMEN  IN  MUSICAL  AFFAIRS 


33i 


two  years,  at  the  end  of  which  it  came  to  a  dismal  close 
with  an  expenditure  for  the  three  seasons  over  and  above 
the  receipts  of  the  box-office  of  nearly  a  million  dollars, 
which  their  surprised  and  chagrined  men  guarantors  had 
to  pay.  This  is  but  one  of  several  such  irregular  ventures, 
each  one  of  which  has  swallowed  hundreds  of  thousands. 
One  would  think  that  the  inevitable  failure  of  these  ef¬ 
forts  would  deter  others  from  undertaking  them,  but  such 
is  not  the  case.  Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  breast  of  the 
musical  woman  devotee  and  I  have  just  heard  of  a  new 
orchestra  now  being  formed  in  order  to  enable  still  an¬ 
other  foreigner,  whose  interpretations  will  of  course  be  a 
revelation  to  our  public,  to  wield  his  stick  in  this  country 
as  his  own  has  refused  to  accept  him  at  his  own  valuation. 

In  recent  years  chamber-music  in  New  York  has  re¬ 
ceived  great  encouragement  and  intelligent  support  from 
women.  Mrs.  Frederick  S.  Coolidge  has  proved  a  veri¬ 
table  godmother  to  this  lovely  branch  of  musical  art,  and 
every  fall  the  festivals  of  chamber-music  which  she  gives  in 
Pittsfield  in  the  Berkshire  Hills  bring  together  notable 
gatherings  of  musicians  and  music-lovers  as  her  guests. 
For  several  years  she  has  offered  generous  prizes  in  compe¬ 
tition  for  various  forms  of  chamber-music.  But  to  me  the 
most  encouraging  thing  that  she  has  done  is  the  commis¬ 
sioning  of  certain  composers  to  write  compositions  for 
these  festivals.  Neither  string  quartets  nor  violin  sonatas 
can  ever  become  profitable  to  the  composer  in  the  ordinary 
way  of  commerce,  as  the  number  of  copies  which  can  be 
sold  of  such  works  is  necessarily  limited.  Even  young 
American  composers  must  live,  and  if  they  are  to  devote 
their  time  to  the  creation  of  serious  forms  of  art  they 
should  be  assured  of  at  least  some  financial  recompense 
for  the  time  they  must  give  to  it. 


332 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Mrs.  Ralph  Pulitzer  has  entirely  maintained  an  excel¬ 
lent  string  quartet  for  the  past  three  years,  and  I  should 
like  to  see  such  excellent  examples  followed  by  others 
among  our  well-to-do,  as  chamber-music  is  essentially 
written  for  performance  in  the  home  and  loses  much  of 
its  charm  and  intimacy  if  given  in  a  larger  hall  and  before 
hundreds  of  people. 

For  some  time  to  come  the  initiative  for  a  more  gen¬ 
eral  musical  education  of  our  people  will  have  to  come 
from  the  women.  If  American  mothers  will  demand  and 
obtain  for  their  sons  the  same  musical  privileges  and  op¬ 
portunities  which  their  daughters  now  enjoy  America 
will  speedily  become  the  most  musical  country  in  the 
world. 

So  much  has  already  been  done,  but  much  remains,  and 
I  should  like  to  live  a  hundred  years  longer  just  to  watch 
this  development  and  to  rejoice  in  its  results. 


XVIII 

BOSTON 


In  1887  I  visited  Boston  for  the  first  time  profession¬ 
ally.  I  had  begun  my  Wagnerian  lecture  recitals  in  New 
York  a  year  or  two  before,  and  they  had  spread  like  wild¬ 
fire  in  all  directions.  The  enthusiasm  for  Wagner,  which 
had  been  kindled  into  a  bright  flame  by  my  father’s 
founding  of  German  opera  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera 
House,  had  produced  a  wide-spread  desire  for  better  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  Wagner’s  music  and  his  theories  regard¬ 
ing  the  music-drama. 

I  received  an  invitation  from  a  group  of  Boston  women, 
including  Mrs.  John  L.  Gardner,  Mrs.  0.  B.  Frothing- 
ham,  Mrs.  George  Tyson,  and  Mrs.  Henry  Whitman,  to 
give  my  lecture  recitals  on  the  “Nibelungen  Trilogy.” 

Boston  at  that  time  occupied  a  unique  position  as  the 
only  city  in  America  which  possessed  a  permanent  or¬ 
chestra,  maintained  by  Colonel  Henry  Lee  Higginson, 
for  the  cultivation  of  symphonic  music.  A  small  group 
of  highly  educated  and  socially  prominent  Bostonians, 
belonging  to  the  oldest  New  England  families,  made  this 
orchestra  almost  the  focus  of  their  social  life.  The 
weekly  concerts  were  the  great  events,  the  programmes 
eagerly  discussed,  and  its  conductor,  Wilhelm  Gericke,  was 
alternately  cursed  or  blessed  according  to  their  attitude 
toward  some  novelty  which  he  had  just  produced. 

Among  this  group  I  was  made  heartily  welcome.  The 
atmosphere  was  intensely  local,  if  not  provincial,  and  as 
against  the  searching,  feverish  life  of  a  great  metropolis 

333 


334 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


like  New  York,  with  its  many  conflicting  interests  and 
racial  currents,  the  tranquillity  and  purely  American 
quality  of  Boston  life,  as  it  presented  itself  to  me,  was  a 
complete  contrast.  I  am  speaking  of  Boston  of  thirty-five 
years  ago  and  of  conditions  that  have  to  a  certain  extent 
disappeared,  for  to-day  even  the  young  descendants  of  the 
New  Englanders  of  that  era  seem  to  find  their  pleasures 
in  different  and  more  restless  fashion. 

In  the  group  of  which  I  have  spoken,  Mrs.  Gardner  was 
among  the  most  original  and  fascinating.  She  was  cer¬ 
tainly  the  leaven  in  the  Boston  lump  and  sometimes 
shocked  the  more  staid  element  by  her  innovations  and 
interest  in  more  modern  currents  in  art  and  literature 
than  had  hitherto  rippled  its  calm  Emersonian  surface. 
Boston  was  at  that  time  perhaps  the  best  example  of  that 
typically  American  musical  culture  of  which  I  have  spoken 
elsewhere,  which  instead  of  growing  upward  from  the 
masses  was  carefully  introduced  and  nurtured  by  an  aris¬ 
tocratic  and  cultivated  community  through  symphony 
concerts  and  lectures  on  music.  Its  original  impulse 
sprang  perhaps  more  from  the  head  than  the  heart,  but 
it  would  not  be  fair  therefore  to  say  that  New  Englanders 
approached  music  only  from  the  intellectual  standpoint. 
I  have  seen  very  emotional  outbursts  among  Boston 
audiences,  both  at  my  Wagner  recitals  and  years  after 
when  I  returned  with  the  Damrosch  Opera  Company 
to  give  the  Wagner  music-dramas.  While  it  is  possible 
that  they  felt  heartily  ashamed  of  these  enthusiasms  af¬ 
terward,  and  exclaimed,  “Is  this  Boston ?”  the  fact  re¬ 
mains  that  even  a  Bostonian  is  human,  like  other  Amer¬ 
icans,  and  needs  only  to  be  encouraged  to  prove  that  he 
too  has  a  heart  which  can  beat  warmly  and  respond  to  the 
emotions  kindled  by  art. 


BOSTON 


335 


Their  capacity  for  friendship  in  the  finest  sense  of  the 
word  is  wonderful,  and  I  achieved  many  of  my  dearest 
friends  at  that  time.  We  have  all  grown  much  older  since 
then,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Gardner,  on  whom  the 
years  leave  no  imprint  and  whose  enthusiasms  for  life 
and  art  flame  just  as  brightly  to-day  as  then. 

I  was  certainly  very  young  in  those  days,  and  remem¬ 
ber,  after  one  of  my  lectures,  which  had  gone  off  with  great 
enthusiasm,  walking  along  Boylston  Street  toward  my 
hotel,  thinking  in  my  young  conceit  that  I  was  evidently 
a  good  deal  of  a  personage,  when  I  saw  that  the  street 
was  filled  with  crowds  of  people  and  the  police  were 
making  a  passage  with  difficulty  so  as  to  allow  an  open 
carriage,  drawn  by  two  horses,  to  pass  through.  In  it 
sat  a  rather  stout,  smooth-shaven  gentleman  with  a  very 
shiny  high  silk  hat,  and  the  people  were  cheering  him 
like  mad.  “Who  is  this?”  I  asked  a  bystander.  He  gave 
me  a  contemptuous  look  and  stopped  cheering  just  long 
enough  to  say:  “Don’t  you  know  John  L.  Sullivan  when 
you  see  him?”  I  accepted  the  rebuke  meekly  and  entered 
my  hotel  a  much  more  modest  man  than  I  had  left  it  a 
few  hours  before.  John  L.  Sullivan,  “Boston’s  greatest 
citizen,”  had  just  come  home  from  a  fight  in  London,  but 
I  do  not  know  to  this  day  whether  he  had  won  or  lost. 

The  Boston  orchestra  was  at  that  time  conducted  by 
Wilhelm  Gericke,  who  had  brought  it  to  a  remarkable 
state  of  proficiency.  I  found  him  to  be  a  very  likable 
man,  a  thorough  musician,  and  always  gentle  and  friendly 
in  his  attitude.  I  used  to  envy  him  because,  while  I  had 
to  maintain  my  orchestra  at  that  time  by  my  own  exer¬ 
tions,  he  had  a  great  philanthropist  behind  him.  His  or¬ 
chestra  was  engaged  by  the  year,  played  under  no  other 
conductor,  and  assembled  every  morning  at  9.30,  like 


336 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


clockwork,  for  rehearsal.  Gericke  brought  the  orches¬ 
tra  up  to  a  high  standard  of  virtuosity.  His  sense  of 
values  was  absolute,  and  under  his  training  and  greatly 
assisted  by  Franz  Kneisel,  his  concert  master,  the  strings 
soon  acquired  great  unanimity  and  a  ravishing  quality  of 
tone.  His  readings  were  always  musicianly,  although  I 
felt  occasionally  that  they  were  too  reserved.  He  had  a 
horror  of  the  exaggeration  of  the  brass  instruments,  and 
perhaps  erred  on  the  other  side  in  subduing  them  too 
much;  but  when  he  returned,  years  after,  for  another  five 
years  in  Boston  his  readings  had  gained  in  freedom  and 
elasticity,  and  the  balance  of  the  different  choirs  seemed 
perfectly  adjusted.  Boston,  and  indeed  the  country, 
owes  him  much.  He  was  fortunate  in  his  opportunities, 
but  he  proved  himself  worthy  of  them. 

Rightly  or  wrongly,  Colonel  Higginson  had  made  it  his 
rule  to  engage  none  but  German  conductors  for  his  or¬ 
chestra.  He  had  gained  his  first  enthusiasm  for  sym¬ 
phonic  music  as  a  young  man  in  Leipsic,  and  had  got  the 
idea  firmly  in  his  mind  that  only  Germany  could  give  his 
orchestra  the  leaders  which  it  required.  Among  the  long 
line  of  conductors  who  came  and  went,  not  all,  naturally, 
were  of  equal  worth.  A  few  were  distinctly  second-raters, 
and  I  remember  one  whose  blustering  incompetence  and 
conceit  finally  so  enraged  Colonel  Higginson  that,  as  the 
gentleman  would  not  resign  when  requested  because  his 
contract  still  had  another  year  to  run,  Higginson  sent 
him  a  check  for  the  entire  amount  and  dismissed  him. 
Curiously  enough  the  impetus  which  the  reputation  of 
having  been  conductor  of  the  Boston  Symphony  Orches¬ 
tra  gave  was  so  great  that  it  landed  him  in  two  other 
American  orchestras,  one  of  which  he  brought  to  the 
very  verge  of  ruin  and  the  other  he  ruined  altogether,  so 


BOSTON 


337 


that  the  city  which  had  founded  it  and  lavished  hundreds 
of  thousands  upon  it  is  now  without  any  symphony  or¬ 
chestra  and  seems  to  have  lost  the  courage  to  begin 
again. 

But  among  the  conductors  of  the  Boston  Orchestra 
two  stand  out  as  among  the  best  that  Europe  has  sent 
over.  These  are  Arthur  Nikisch  and  Doctor  Karl  Muck. 
The  one  died  last  winter,  beloved  and  mourned  by  the 
musical  public  of  all  Europe  and  of  North  and  South 
America;  the  other  was  sent  from  our  country  back  to 
Germany  after  the  war  in  deserved  disgrace,  after  having 
been  interned  as  prisoner  of  war  at  Fort  Oglethorpe. 

When  I  first  met  Arthur  Nikisch  in  1887  he  was  con¬ 
ductor  at  the  Leipsic  Opera  House.  I  had  gone  there  to 
attend  an  annual  meeting  and  festival  of  the  Tonklinstler- 
Verein,  an  association  of  which  Franz  Liszt  had  always 
been  the  president  and  which  had  originally  been  formed 
by  a  small  group  of  Liszt-Wagner-Berlioz  adherents,  of 
whom  my  father  was  one.  One  of  the  features  of  the 
festival  was  a  stage  performance  of  Berlioz’s  “  Benvenuto 
Cellini,”  given  in  honor  of  Liszt.  The  work  fascinated 
me,  and  its  performance  under  the  young  Nikisch  de¬ 
lighted  me  beyond  words.  In  appearance  he  already 
had  the  same  characteristics  which  his  enemies  decried 
but  which  among  his  friends  only  aroused  a  delighted 
chuckle  when  he  appeared  on  the  platform,  and  which 
quickly  changed  to  a  hurricane  of  enthusiasm  after  he  had 
demonstrated  his  marvellous  skill  as  an  interpreter.  I 
refer  to  the  long  black  lock  which  always  hung  low  over 
his  forehead  and  his  still  longer  white  cuffs  which  more 
and  more  enveloped  his  little  white  hands  as  the  per¬ 
formance  orogressed. 

Gericke  had  developed  the  orchestra  into  a  perfect  in- 


338 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


strument,  and  when  Nikisch  arrived  he  played  upon  it 
like  a  virtuoso.  I  have  always  maintained  that  Nikisch 
achieved  still  greater  mastery  during  his  years  in  America, 
because  until  then  he  had  had  no  such  orchestra  at  his 
disposal.  The  much-vaunted  Leipsic  Gewandhaus  and 
the  Berlin  Philharmonic,  which  he  conducted,  suffer  from 
the  troubles  common  to  all  co-operative  organizations. 
Their  members  outstay  their  period  of  usefulness  and 
retain  permanent  places  in  the  orchestra  after  they  should 
give  way  to  younger  and  better  men. 

The  readings  of  Nikisch  were  distinctly  personal  and 
therefore,  because  they  reflected  his  own  nature,  so  in¬ 
gratiating  that  I  have  often  enjoyed  certain  of  his  inter¬ 
pretations  although  I  considered  them  wrong  and  con¬ 
trary  to  the  intentions  of  the  composer.  Nikisch  made 
them  convincing  for  the  moment. 

Doctor  Muck,  who  became  conductor  of  the  Boston 
Symphony  some  years  later,  was  less  personal  in  his  read¬ 
ings.  His  principal  work  in  Germany  had  been  the  con¬ 
ducting  of  opera,  and  occasionally  a  lack  of  routine  in 
symphonic  work  showed  itself  in  badly  combined  pro¬ 
grammes,  but  only  in  that  one  respect.  As  a  conductor 
of  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven  and  Brahms  he  was  a 
master,  and  to  me  his  interpretations  of  Brahms  rank 
among  the  finest  that  I  have  heard.  It  was  a  tragedy 
that  this  man,  who  had  gained  not  only  the  confidence 
and  respect  of  his  patron,  Colonel  Higginson,  to  a  greater 
degree  than  any  other  of  the  Boston  conductors,  who  was 
admired  not  only  in  Boston  but  in  every  city  which  the 
orchestra  visited,  and  to  whom  America  had  given  un¬ 
bounded  acclaim,  should  at  the  crucial  moment  have 
proved  himself  a  supercilious,  arrogant  Prussian  of  the 
worst  Junker  type,  ungrateful  toward  the  man  to  whom 


BOSTON 


339 


he  owed  his  many  successful  years  in  America,  and  finally 
even  an  abject  coward  and  renegade  toward  the  country 
to  which  he  owed  national  allegiance. 

The  story  in  its  entirety  is  too  unpleasant  to  be  told, 
but  as  after  Muck’s  return  to  Germany  he  saw  fit  to  in¬ 
dulge  in  the  most  violent  diatribes  against  America  and 
its  treatment  of  him,  it  is  justifiable  to  tell  a  little  of  the 
truth  in  these  pages. 

In  order  to  understand  the  story  properly  it  is  neces¬ 
sary  to  recall  the  excitement  which  swept  through  the 
country  when  we  finally  entered  the  Great  War.  Wars 
arouse  prejudice  as  well  as  patriotism,  and  suspicion  as 
well  as  faith.  One  of  the  curious,  almost  pathological, 
results  of  the  psychosis  of  war  is  the  spy  mania,  and  this 
manifested  itself  in  the  years  of  1917  and  1918  to  a  re¬ 
markable  extent — in  America  as  well  as  in  Europe.  One 
need  only  recall  the  many  stories  of  concrete  tennis- 
courts  which  were  discovered  and  vouched  for  by  reputa¬ 
ble  people  as  having  been  built  years  before  by  German 
army  officers,  who,  disguised  as  “rich  American  finan¬ 
ciers”  (!)  had  constructed  lavish  country  places  along 
the  Atlantic  seaboard,  all  of  which  possessed  these  re¬ 
markable  concrete  tennis-courts.  These  were  to  support 
great  guns  which  at  the  proper  moment  were  to  put 
the  American  navy  out  of  existence!  There  were  also 
wonderful  stories  of  secret  wires  discovered  in  private 
houses,  and  of  strange  beacon-lights  suddenly  flaming  up 
at  regular  intervals  along  the  coast  in  order  to  signal 
messages  to  some  mysterious  German  submarine. 

It  was  all  like  a  war  novel  of  Oppenheim,  and  as  some 
of  our  ladies  joined  the  secret  service  in  an  unofficial 
capacity,  they  together  with  others — who  conceived  it  to 
be  the  height  of  faithlessness  to  our  country  to  enjoy  a 


340 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


symphony  of  Beethoven  or  an  opera  of  Wagner  while 
we  were  at  war  with  Germany — had  a  beautiful  time  in 
the  happy  illusion  that  they  were  doing  real  war  work. 

Doctor  Muck  immediately  became  a  centre  of  suspi¬ 
cion.  He  had  taken  a  cottage  at  Seal  Harbor,  Maine, 
for  the  summer  of  1917,  and  of  course  he  was  immediately 
accused  of  having  a  wireless  outfit  and  signalling  to  a 
whole  fleet  of  German  submarines  which  were  cruising  off 
Mount  Desert  Island  and  whose  immediate  object  was, 
of  course,  to  capture  all  the  millionaires  of  Bar  Harbor 
and  hold  them  captives  for  huge  ransoms. 

According  to  others  he  had  placed  a  telephone  receiver 
in  the  cellar  of  his  house  in  Boston  which  skilfully  tapped 
the  wire  of  the  telephone  of  the  lady  next  door,  and  she, 
to  her  horror,  had  one  morning  on  lifting  her  telephone,  in 
order  to  call  up  her  butcher,  heard  his  “guttural”  German 
voice  conversing  with  some  mysterious  German  at  the 
other  end  about  a  shipment  of  dynamite,  which  was  to  be 
used,  of  course,  to  destroy  Faneuil  Hall  and  the  birth¬ 
place  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow  in  Maine. 

There  was  not  a  story  so  wild  that  it  did  not  gain  cre¬ 
dence,  but  it  was  not  so  strange  that  many  of  these  pre¬ 
posterous  rumors  should  centre  around  Doctor  Muck. 
His  attitude  toward  us  had  become  more  and  more  super¬ 
cilious.  That  he  should  sympathize  with  his  own  coun¬ 
try  was  perhaps  natural,  but  that  he  should  use  some  tact 
and  reticence  in  this  respect  was  equally  to  be  expected. 
He  might  have  taken  example  from  Fritz  Kreisler  who, 
as  an  Austrian  citizen,  served  at  the  beginning  of  the  war 
in  the  Austrian  army,  but  was  retired  and  returned  to 
this  country  before  we  entered  the  conflict.  From  then 
on  he  acted  with  such  dignity  and  tact,  giving  up  all 
playing  in  public  during  that  critical  period,  that  he  re- 


BOSTON 


34i 


tained  the  personal  respect  and  affection  of  all  right- 
thinking  Americans. 

As  the  war  situation  became  more  and  more  serious, 
Doctor  Muck  seemed  to  become  more  and  more  super¬ 
cilious.  In  response  to  a  perfectly  natural  impulse,  the 
public  demanded  that  our  orchestras  begin  or  end  their 
concerts  with  the  playing  of  the  national  anthem.  This 
had  become  the  symbol  of  our  patriotism,  and  as  millions 
of  our  young  men  began  to  gather  in  the  camps  and  to  be 
sent  abroad  in  the  transports,  “The  Star-Spangled  Ban¬ 
ner’ J  was  beginning  to  awaken  in  every  heart  emotions 
that  were  hardly  known  to  our  generation  before  the  war. 
Doctor  Muck  refused  to  play  the  anthem.  Not  from 
Boston  nor  New  York,  alas,  but  from  Providence,  Balti¬ 
more,  and  Pittsburgh  angry  mutterings  began  to  be  heard. 
These  cities  insisted  that  an  orchestra  which  in  time  of 
war  was  not  willing  to  play  our  national  anthem  should 
not  be  permitted  to  play  at  all.  Doctor  Muck’s  answer 
to  this,  in  a  newspaper  interview,  was  that  he  conducted 
an  artistic  institution,  that  “The  Star-Spangled  Banner” 
is  not  a  work  of  art,  and  therefore  “only  fit  to  be  played 
by  ballroom  orchestras  and  military  bands.” 

Up  till  then  I  had  upheld  Doctor  Muck  in  so  far  as  it 
seemed  just  as  bad  taste  for  him,  as  a  German,  to  con¬ 
duct  our  national  hymn  in  time  of  war  with  his  country 
as  it  was  for  our  public  to  insist  that  a  German  should 
do  so.  He  could  have  said:  “ I  am  a  German;  my  country 
is  at  war  with  yours.  I  am  your  guest  because  in  1915 
Colonel  Higginson  insisted  that  I  should  return  to  America 
as  he  thought  that  the  orchestra  could  not  exist  without 
me.  I  am  now  in  an  unfortunate  position.  Let  me  retire 
from  conducting  here  during  the  war,  or  at  least  let  your 
national  anthem  be  conducted  by  the  concert-master.” 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


342 

But  this  interview  was  a  flippant  evasion  of  the  real 
point  at  issue,  and  when  the  reporter  of  the  New  York 
Tribune  brought  it  to  me,  I  exclaimed  that  I  did  not  be¬ 
lieve  Doctor  Muck  could  have  said  anything  so  outra¬ 
geous,  whereupon  the  reporter  told  me  that  his  editor  had 
expected  me  to  say  this  and  had  therefore  telegraphed  to 
Boston  and  obtained  a  confirmation  of  the  interview.  I 
then  expressed  myself  in  very  plain  language  regarding 
Doctor  Muck’s  attitude,  but  his  only  answer  was  a  new 
interview  in  which  he  declared  that  it  was  all  a  mistake, 
that  he  was  not  a  German  but  a  Swiss !  This  belated 
claim,  which  was  based  on  technicalities  and  contrary 
to  the  facts,  was  promptly  denied  by  the  Swiss  minister 
in  Washington,  and  then  suddenly  Doctor  Muck  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  conduct  “The  Star-Spangled  Banner,”  but  in 
listless  fashion,  although  half  a  dozen  cities  by  that  time 
barred  their  doors  to  him  and  the  concerts  of  the  orches¬ 
tra  had  to  be  cancelled. 

In  the  meantime  the  secret-service  men  of  the  govern¬ 
ment  had  been  patiently  following  every  rumor  and  clew 
regarding  Muck’s  supposed  spy  activities,  and  while  they 
discovered  that  his  attitude  toward  us  was  absolutely 
inimical  and  that  he  was  therefore  decidedly  persona  non 
grata ,  there  was  no  foundation  of  truth  in  the  rumors 
connecting  him  with  wires,  wireless,  beacon-lights,  dyna¬ 
mite,  or  German  submarines.  The  secret-service  men, 
however,  discovered  other  disagreeable  things  in  regard 
to  him  which  had  no  connection  with  the  war  but  which 
made  him  liable  under  the  laws  of  our  country.  An  in¬ 
criminating  package  of  letters  was  shown  to  him,  and  on 
his  acknowledgment  that  he  had  written  them  he  was 
given  the  choice  of  internment  as  a  prisoner  of  war  at 
Fort  Oglethorpe  or  of  being  arrested  on  another  charge 


BOSTON 


343 


and  brought  before  the  civil  courts  for  trial.  He  natu¬ 
rally  threw  up  his  hands  and  accepted  the  former  as  the 
lesser  evil.  As  he  was  released  after  the  war  on  condition 
that  he  return  to  his  own  country,  I  cannot  see  that  he 
has  cause  for  anything  but  gratitude  toward  this  country 
and  its  lenient  treatment  of  him. 

The  whole  affair  was  a  terrible  shock  to  Colonel  Hig- 
ginson.  He  was  an  old  man  and  the  discoveries  regarding 
Doctor  Muck,  in  whom  he  had  placed  such  confidence 
and  for  whom  he  had  vouched  so  absolutely,  were  un¬ 
endurable  to  him.  He  had  expected  to  continue  his  sup¬ 
port  of  the  orchestra,  and  it  was  generally  assumed  that 
he  would  leave  the  organization  an  endowment  sufficient 
to  maintain  it  after  his  death.  Instead  of  this,  he  an¬ 
nounced  his  determination  to  withdraw  altogether,  and 
left  the  decision  whether  they  wished  to  continue  the  or¬ 
chestra  with  a  group  of  music-lovers  whom  he  had  called 
together.  For  a  time  its  future  was  in  great  doubt. 
Thirty  of  the  players  were  discharged  because  of  their 
German  nationality,  but  money  was  subscribed  by  vari¬ 
ous  Boston  citizens  to  rebuild  the  orchestra,  and  to-day, 
under  the  leadership  of  Pierre  Monteux,  it  is  fast  regaining 
its  old  excellence.  It  will  never  again  occupy  the  unique 
position  it  held  twenty-five  years  and  more  ago,  because 
since  then  so  many  other  symphony  orchestras  have  been 
founded  in  America  on  similar  lines  and  with  similar  gen¬ 
erous  endowments.  But  to  Colonel  Higginson  will  al¬ 
ways  belong  the  glory  of  having  blazed  the  trail.  He 
set  the  standard,  and  America  will  give  his  memory  lov¬ 
ing  reverence  and  gratitude. 


XIX 


MARGARET  ANGLIN  AND  THE  GREEK  PLAYS 

During  the  winter  of  1915  I  received  a  letter  from  Mar¬ 
garet  Anglin,  our  distinguished  American  actress,  asking 
me  to  compose  the  incidental  music  for  two  Greek  plays 
which  she  intended  to  produce  the  following  summer  at 
the  great  open-air  Greek  Theatre  in  Berkeley,  California. 
The  plays  selected  were  the  “  Iphigenia  in  Aulis”  of  Eurip¬ 
ides  and  “Medea”  of  Sophocles.  I  was  fascinated  by 
the  problem  involved,  as  it  necessitated  not  only  the  com¬ 
posing  of  the  music  but  the  creation  of  a  form  in  which  it 
was  to  be  cast. 

We  know  very  little  of  the  music  of  the  ancient  Greeks, 
and  if  we  sought  to  imitate  that,  it  would  sound  so  archaic 
and  even  unnatural  to  our  modern  ears  as  to  fail  in  prop¬ 
erly  supporting  the  emotions  of  the  drama  for  us.  While 
the  Greeks  had  developed  the  technic  of  the  drama  to 
a  remarkable  extent,  music  as  an  art  was  at  that  time 
in  its  infancy,  although  its  importance  was  fully  recog¬ 
nized  by  Plato  and  the  great  dramatists. 

The  problem  for  me  was  to  write  music  which  should 
take  full  advantage  of  the  modern  development  of  har¬ 
mony  and  orchestration,  and  form  an  emotional  current 
on  which  the  drama  could  float  without  being  in  any  way 
submerged.  The  treatment  of  the  Greek  chorus  was  an¬ 
other  problem  for  which  I  had  no  precedents.  Men¬ 
delssohn  had  written  incidental  music  to  “Antigone,” 
but  this  music  does  not  represent  Mendelssohn  at  his 
best,  as  much  of  it  is  dry  and  academic  in  character. 

344 


MARGARET  ANGLIN 


345 


The  Greek  choruses  usually  begin  with  a  recital  of  some 
old  story  of  mythology,  with  which  every  Greek  in  the 
audience  of  that  era  had  been  familiar  since  childhood. 
Gradually  this  story  is  brought  into  connection  with  the 
situation  on  the  stage  and  reaches  its  climax  when  the 
chorus  implores  the  actors  to  draw  their  lesson  from  it. 
These  choruses  I  treated  in  various  ways,  according  to 
the  needs  of  the  dramatic  situation.  Some  were  recited 
to  a  soft  but  expressive  undercurrent  of  music,  others 
were  sung,  and  still  others  were  a  combination  of  both. 
I  would  have  the  story  of  the  old  Greek  legend  recited  by 
the  first  leader  of  the  chorus.  Then  the  second  leader, 
as  he  applied  it  to  the  dramatic  situation,  would  burst 
into  song,  until,  in  the  third  phase,  the  entire  chorus  would 
join  in  their  impassioned  pleadings  or  warnings. 

In  the  spring  of  1915  I  took  a  little  cottage  in  Setauket, 
Long  Island,  and  there  within  six  weeks  wrote  the  entire 
music  for  the  two  plays,  the  orchestra  parts  being  copied 
sheet  by  sheet  as  my  score  was  finished.  In  June  I  packed 
them  in  my  bag  and  travelled  across  the  continent  to  meet 
Margaret  Anglin  and  take  charge  of  the  musical  part  of 
the  production. 

On  arriving  in  San  Francisco  I  found  the  great  World’s 
Fair  already  in  full  operation.  Its  Spanish  architecture 
and  the  luxuriant  verdure  in  which  it  was  enclosed  made 
it  a  perfect  dream  of  beauty,  but  I  gave  myself  little  op¬ 
portunity  to  enjoy  it,  as  my  real  mission  was  across  the 
bay  at  the  Greek  Theatre  in  Berkeley,  where  Margaret 
Anglin  and  a  company  of  players  were  already  busily 
engaged  from  morning  till  evening  in  rehearsing.  They 
were  anxiously  awaiting  my  music  in  order  to  make  it 
fit  in  properly  with  the  stage  arrangements. 

The  Greek  Theatre  at  the  California  University  is  one 


346 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


of  the  most  remarkable  structures  of  its  kind  in  the  world. 
Built  amphitheatrically  against  the  side  of  a  hill  and  ab¬ 
solutely  on  the  lines  of  the  old  Greek  theatres,  its  top  is 
fringed  by  sombre  eucalyptus-trees. 

A  few  years  before  I  had  seen  a  performance  of  the 
“Bacchante”  of  Euripides  given  by  a  company  of  Roman 
actors  at  an  antique  amphitheatre  on  the  side  of  a  hill 
overlooking  Florence.  Much  of  this  performance  had 
been  impressive,  but  the  music  was  tawdry,  and  as  the 
play  was  given  according  to  old  Greek  custom  in  the  late 
afternoon,  the  cruel  sunlight  made  the  make-up  of  the 
actors  and  the  garish  colors  of  their  costumes  doubly 
prosaic.  The  ancient  Greeks  had  no  artificial  lighting 
and  were  therefore  compelled  to  give  their  performances 
in  daylight,  although  they  sought  to  temper  it  so  that 
night  would  fall  at  about  the  end  of  the  play.  Margaret 
Anglin,  with  her  characteristic  genius,  perceived  that  a 
much  greater  glamour  and  stage  illusion  could  be  pro¬ 
duced  by  giving  her  performances  at  night,  leaving  the 
audience  in  darkness  and  marking  out  the  stage  with 
great  electric  lights  from  above,  which  could  be  height¬ 
ened  or  lessened  according  to  the  actual  needs  of  the 
drama. 

If  the  drama  in  America  had  been  treated  as  seriously 
by  its  cultured  citizens  as  music  has  been,  Margaret  Anglin 
would  perhaps  be  to-day  the  artistic  head  of  an  endowed 
theatre  devoted  to  productions  of  Shakespeare,  Goethe, 
Moliere,  Calderon,  ^Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides. 
These  great  masters  of  the  stage  would  form  just  as  im¬ 
portant  a  part  of  her  repertoire  as  the  symphonies  of 
Beethoven  and  Brahms  make  up  an  important  part  of 
the  programmes  of  the  New  York  Symphony  Orchestra. 
Margaret  Anglin  is  to-day  the  greatest  tragedienne  of  the 


MARGARET  ANGLIN 


347 


American  stage,  and  should  be  acting  Medea  and  Lady 
Macbeth.  But  instead  of  that  she  has  to  tour  the  coun¬ 
try,  playing  “ Green  Stockings”  and  similar  piffle,  and 
only  indulges  her  artistic  ambitions  and  ideals  in  oc¬ 
casional  productions  of  Greek  dramas  at  her  own  risk 
and  very  much  at  her  own  expense. 

I  was  immensely  interested  in  the  rehearsals  on  the 
stage  of  the  Greek  Theatre.  They  began  at  nine-thirty 
in  the  morning  and  would  often  last — with  an  intermission 
of  an  hour  or  two  for  lunch — until  eight  o’clock  at  night, 
but  as  they  were  held  outdoors  in  the  glorious  fresh  air 
of  California  there  was  but  little  fatigue,  and  all  con¬ 
cerned  gave  themselves  up  enthusiastically  to  Miss  An¬ 
glin’s  direction  and  picturesque  conception. 

She  had  hired  a  bungalow  near  the  theatre  and  a 
Japanese  butler-cook.  This  little  Jap  would  always  ap¬ 
pear  at  one  o’clock  with  a  basket  filled  with  the  most  de¬ 
licious  luncheon  dishes,  artistically  decorated  in  real 
Japanese  style  by  his  own  deft  fingers.  He  seemed  to 
have  a  great  penchant  for  the  stage,  asserted  that  he  had 
acted  Hamlet  in  Japan,  and  would  sit  for  hours  after 
luncheon  watching  the  rehearsal,  with  his  little  inscrutable 
eyes  fixed  on  the  stage.  I  have  often  wondered  whether 
on  his  return  to  Japan  he  gave  performances  of  the  Greek 
plays  to  his  own  compatriots  and  whether  any  great 
changes  or  adaptations  were  necessary  to  make  them  com¬ 
prehensible  to  his  audiences. 

While  the  general  plan  of  the  action  and  grouping  had 
been  carefully  worked  out  by  Miss  Anglin,  she  had  an 
open  mind  and  eye,  and  would  often  change  the  arrange¬ 
ment  completely  if  an  improvement  could  be  effected 
thereby.  This  meant  incessant  repetitions,  during  which 
her  patience  and  cheerful  courtesy  never  failed  her. 


348 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


A  grand  piano  had  been  rolled  into  a  corner  of  the 
stage,  and  I  was  so  fascinated  in  watching  the  rehearsals 
and  the  gradual  evolution  of  the  stage  pictures  under 
her  skilful  hands,  that  I  insisted  on  always  playing  the 
incidental  music  myself,  even  though  some  of  the  scenes 
were  repeated  dozens  of  times. 

Miss  Anglin  had  enlisted  the  services  of  fourteen  of 
California  University’s  loveliest  and  most  talented  co¬ 
eds  to  form  her  Greek  chorus.  Beauty  seems  to  flourish 
naturally  on  the  Pacific  coast,  and  some  of  these  young 
ladies  were  glorious  specimens  of  a  truly  Greek  and 
statuesque  charm.  The  recitation  of  one  of  the  choruses, 
which  was  to  be  spoken  in  a  kind  of  elastic  rhythm  to 
the  music  of  the  orchestra,  was  intrusted  to  one  of  these 
Dianas  of  Berkeley,  and  as  she  had  no  conception  of 
this,  to  her,  novel  combination,  Miss  Anglin  asked  me  to 
give  her  a  separate  rehearsal  after  lunch.  I  sat  down  at 
the  piano  and  recited  the  chorus  to  her  while  I  played 
the  accompanying  music.  She  stood  by  my  side  listen¬ 
ing  intently  and  looking  like  a  statue  of  Diana  of  Ephesus. 
Then,  bending  her  head  with  stately  dignity,  she  said: 
“I  get  ya!”  Alas!  the  illusion  was  gone,  and  her  voice 
brought  me  back  suddenly  from  my  dream  of  400  B.  C. 
to  California  of  1915.  She  had  not  “got  me,”  however, 
and  I  was  finally  compelled  to  give  this  chorus  to  another 
young  lady,  less  statuesque  in  form  but  more  clever  in 
achieving  plastic  unity  between  speech  and  music. 

But  my  real  troubles  began  when  I  tried  to  collect  an 
orchestra  of  fifty  for  the  performances.  At  that  time 
there  were  not  many  good  players  in  San  Francisco,  and 
even  those  few  were  permanently  engaged  in  the  big 
World’s  Fair  orchestra.  My  first  rehearsal  was  truly 
pathetic — I  had  been  so  spoiled  by  the  many  years  of 


MARGARET  ANGLIN 


349 


association  with  my  lovely  New  York  Symphony  Or¬ 
chestra.  But  where  there  is  a  will  there  is  a  way,  and 
by  stealing  a  few  men  from  the  local  theatres  and  bor¬ 
rowing  a  few  more  from  the  exposition  orchestras,  we 
were  enabled  to  get  a  fairly  good  body  of  men  assem¬ 
bled. 

The  success  of  Miss  Anglin’s  productions  was  truly 
remarkable.  There  were  ten  thousand  people  at  each 
performance,  and  “Iphigenia  in  Aulis”  had  to  be  re¬ 
peated  twice.  In  this  work  the  camp  of  Agamemnon  and 
its  atmosphere  of  war  were  graphically  illustrated,  and 
five  hundred  Berkeley  students,  picturesquely  attired 
and  well  trained,  gave  a  very  vivid  picture  of  the  soldier’s 
camp,  especially  at  the  end  of  the  play  when  the  Oracle 
has  announced  that  the  wind  has  changed,  and  these 
hundreds  of  soldiers  rushed  across  the  stage  in  a  tumult 
of  joy  to  board  their  ships  and  sail  for  Troy. 

The  <£EIectra,”  for  which  William  Furst  had  written 
music  for  Miss  Anglin  years  before,  was  also  performed. 
Eventually  I  also  composed  music  for  this  play,  and  all 
three  of  the  dramas  were  performed  in  New  York  a  few 
years  later  at  the  request  of  Mr.  Flagler,  on  the  stage  of 
Carnegie  Hall,  which  had  been  skilfully  converted  for 
the  occasion  into  a  Greek  theatre. 

We  all  marvelled  how  vividly  modern  these  plays, 
written  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago,  seemed  as 
given  under  the  artistic  direction  of  Margaret  Anglin. 
Electra ,  waiting  outside  the  walls  of  the  palace  for  the 
sound  that  shall  announce  to  her  the  death  of  Aigisthus 
and  Clytemnestra ;  Medea ,  having  entered  the  palace  to 
kill  her  own  and  Jason’s  children  in  order  to  punish  him 
for  his  marriage  to  the  young  Princess,  while  the  chorus, 
shaking  the  iron  grill  of  the  doors,  implore  Medea  not  to 


35° 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


slay  her  children;  Iphigenia ,  youngest  daughter  of  Aga¬ 
memnon,  descending  alone  the  great  flight  of  steps  to 
suffer  death  in  the  sacred  grove  of  the  goddess  Artemis, 
that  her  wrath  may  be  appeased  and  favorable  winds 
may  send  the  armies  of  Agamemnon  to  Troy — all  these 
are  unforgetable  scenes,  and  I  was  overjoyed  to  feel 
that  the  music  which  I  had  written  was  not  inappropri¬ 
ate,  but  formed  a  good  background  for  these  crucial 
moments. 


XX 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 

I  have  a  large  library  of  musical  works.  It  was  be¬ 
gun  by  my  father  in  1857,  and  contains  many  scores  of 
the  composers  of  that  period,  sent  to  him  for  first  per¬ 
formance  in  Germany.  He  added  to  it  considerably 
during  his  thirteen  years  in  America  as  founder  and  con¬ 
ductor  of  the  Symphony  and  Oratorio  Societies,  and  I 
have  still  further  enlarged  it  since  I  became  conductor  of 
these  two  organizations.  My  library  now  virtually  rep¬ 
resents  the  entire  symphonic  development  up  to  the 
present  time,  and  as  I  look  through  my  catalogue  I  am 
amazed  at  the  number  of  dead  composers  which  it  con¬ 
tains.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  those  who  have  passed 
away,  but  those  who  were  once  celebrated,  were  hailed 
as  great,  but  whose  works  are  now  forgotten  and  only 
repose  undisturbed  on  dusty  shelves  like  mine,  for  no 
efforts  or  housewife’s  art  will  prevent  dust  from  seeping 
into  the  shelves  of  a  New  York  City  library  I 

To  mention  a  few  of  these  “dead”  composers  alpha¬ 
betically:  Who  now  plays  the  overtures  of  Auber’s  “La 
Muette  de  Portici”  and  “Fra  Diavolo”?  Yet  they  fig¬ 
ured  frequently  in  my  popular  programmes  thirty  years 
ago,  and  both  operas  deserve  more  than  a  passing  recog¬ 
nition.  The  first  was  a  stroke  of  genius  in  which  the 
commonplace  Auber  rose  to  real  heights.  The  heroine 
is  a  dumb  girl,  a  prima  donna  without  a  voice,  but  very 
dramatically  portrayed  in  the  orchestra,  and  the  atmos- 

351 


352 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


phere  of  a  people  fighting  for  freedom  pervades  the  entire 
story.  “Fra  Diavolo”  is  a  delightful  comic  opera.  The 
only  trouble  is  that  the  music  is  too  good  for  the  abjectly 
dull  audiences  that  now  frequent  our  theatres  and  want 
to  see  a  “musical  show.”  Its  plot  is  delightfully  con¬ 
sistent,  which  is  another  reason  for  looking  on  it  with 
disfavor  to-day;  but  I  have  always  regretted  the  Nemesis 
which  overcomes  Fra  Diavolo  in  the  last  act.  This  de¬ 
lightful  robber  has  by  that  time  so  endeared  himself  to 
us  that  he  should  be  allowed  at  the  end  to  escape,  in 
order  that  the  public  may  live  in  the  hope  of  further 
pranks  and  misdeeds  from  him. 

Thirty  years  ago  I  gave  the  first  performance  in  America 
of  a  “Symphony  in  D  Minor,”  by  Anton  Bruckner.  He 
was  a  man  with  the  brains  of  a  peasant  but  the  soul  of  a 
real  musician,  and  with  a  marvellous  gift  for  improvisa¬ 
tion,  although  he  was,  intellectually,  incapable  of  devel¬ 
oping  and  balancing  his  themes  properly.  A  noisy  party 
in  Vienna  wished,  at  the  time,  to  acclaim  this  disciple  of 
Wagner  as  a  genius,  to  counteract  the  constantly  grow¬ 
ing  admiration  for  Brahms,  and  more  recently  such  emi¬ 
nent  conductors  as  Mahler  have  tried  to  popularize 
Bruckner’s  symphonies,  but  they  have  never  gained  a  per¬ 
manent  hold  on  our  public.  Several  years  after  my  per¬ 
formance  of  his  “Symphony  in  D,”  I  was  in  Berlin,  and 
Siegfried  Ochs,  the  conductor  of  the  famous  Philharmonic 
Choir,  brought  a  little  bald-headed  man  of  over  seventy 
years  of  age  to  my  table  at  the  Kaiserhof.  On  my  being 
introduced  to  him,  he  suddenly  grabbed  my  hand,  and 
saying,  “You  are  the  Mr.  Damrosch  who  has  given  my 
symphony  in  America!”  he  proceeded,  to  my  great  em¬ 
barrassment,  to  cover  my  hand  with  kisses. 

Vienna  is  full  of  stories  of  his  childlike  gentleness  and 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


353 


modesty.  Hans  Richter  once  invited  him  to  conduct 
one  of  his  own  symphonies  with  the  famous  orchestra  of 
the  Vienna  Society  of  Friends  of  Music.  At  the  rehearsal 
he  stood  on  the  conductor’s  platform,  stick  in  his  hand, 
with  a  beatific  smile  on  his  face.  The  orchestra  were  all 
ready  to  begin,  but  he  would  not  lift  his  stick  to  give  the 
signal.  Finally  Rose,  the  concert-master,  said  to  him: 
“We  are  quite  ready.  Begin,  Herr  Bruckner.”  “Oh, 
no,”  he  answered.  “After  you,  gentlemen!” 

At  that  time  he  was  also  commanded  to  appear  before 
the  old  Emperor  Franz  Joseph  to  receive  a  decoration. 
After  he  had  been  decorated,  the  Emperor  turned  to  him 
and  said  very  kindly:  “Herr  Bruckner,  is  there  anything 
more  I  can  do  for  you?”  Bruckner  answered  in  a  trem¬ 
bling  voice:  “Won’t  you  please  speak  to  Mr.  Hanslick 
(the  famous  musical  critic  of  Vienna)  that  he  should  not 
write  such  nasty  criticisms  about  my  symphonies?” 

In  my  father’s  time  the  overture  to  Cherubini’s 
“Anacreon”  had  a  frequent  and  honored  place  on  his 
programmes.  A  modern  audience  would  vote  it  too  dry 
and  old-fashioned. 

The  music  of  Niels  W.  Gade  was  quite  a  favorite  with 
our  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  but  he  is  unendura¬ 
ble  to-day. 

A  new  orchestral  composition  of  Carl  Goldmark  was 
eagerly  waited  for,  forty  years  ago,  and  there  was  great 
rivalry  between  my  father  and  Theodore  Thomas  as  to 
which  should  have  the  privilege  of  performing  it  first. 
People  used  to  revel  in  his  “exotic  and  luxuriant  orches¬ 
tration,”  but  to-day  his  colors  have  faded  before  the 
greater  glories  of  Strauss  and  Debussy  and  Ravel,  and 
only  his  “Rustic  Symphony”  occasionally  figures  on 
our  programmes. 


354 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


During  the  second  year  of  the  German  opera  at  the 
Metropolitan,  Goldmark’s  ££ Queen  of  Sheba”  made  a 
success  which  equalled  that  of  the  Wagner  operas. 
Solomon’s  temple,  painted  in  gold,  the  Jewish  rituals, 
the  Oriental  harmonies,  and  the  na'ive  surprise  of  the 
public  on  seeing  biblical  characters  upon  a  modern 
operatic  stage,  all  combined  to  make  the  work  a  sensa¬ 
tional  success.  To-day  it  has  disappeared  completely 
from  the  repertoire  of  European  and  American  opera- 
houses. 

The  fate  of  Franz  Liszt  as  a  composer  is  still  more 
tragic  because  it  is  partly  undeserved.  He  created  the 
form  of  the  symphonic  poem,  but  those  who  succeeded 
him  have  developed  it  so  much  farther  as  to  leave  his 
works  somewhat  submerged.  I  still  have  great  admira¬ 
tion  for  his  “ Faust”  Symphony,  but  neither  I  nor  others 
of  my  colleagues  who  share  this  admiration  have  been 
able  to  make  this  work  really  popular  with  the  general 
public.  His  “ Dante”  Symphony,  “Festklange,”  and 
“ Orpheus”  receive  still  fewer  public  performances,  and 
his  “Ce  qu’on  entend  sur  Ies  montagnes”  has  never  been 
performed  here  to  my  knowledge.  But  ££Les  Preludes” 
and  the  two  Piano  Concertos,  on  the  contrary,  are  still 
played  ad  nauseam . 

The  symphonies  of  Gustav  Mahler  have  never  re¬ 
ceived  genuine  recognition  here,  although  he  was  a  very 
interesting  apparition  in  the  musical  field.  He  was  a 
profound  musician  and  one  of  the  best  conductors  of 
Europe,  and  it  is  possible  that,  in  the  latter  capacity,  he 
occupied  himself  so  intensely  and  constantly  in  analyzing 
and  interpreting  the  works  of  the  great  masters  that  he 
lost  the  power  to  develop  himself  as  composer  on  original 
lines.  All  his  life  he  composed,  but  his  moments  of  real 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


355 


beauty  are  too  rare,  and  the  listener  has  to  wade  through 
pages  of  dreary  emptiness  which  no  artificial  connection 
with  philosophic  ideas  can  fill  with  real  importance. 
The  feverish  restlessness  characteristic  of  the  man  re¬ 
flects  itself  in  his  music,  which  is  fragmentary  in  char¬ 
acter  and  lacks  continuity  of  thought  and  development. 
He  could  write  cleverly  in  the  style  of  Haydn  or  Berlioz 
or  Wagner,  and  without  forgetting  Beethoven,  but  he 
was  never  able  to  write  in  the  style  of  Mahler. 

Of  all  the  greater  composers  of  the  last  hundred  years 
no  one  has  been  killed  oftener  than  Mendelssohn,  yet  he 
always  seems  to  come  back  again  with  a  new  renaissance. 
His  music  for  “Athalie,”  his  “Reformation”  Symphony, 
his  overtures  to  “Melusine”  and  “Ruy  Bias”  are  dead 
as  a  door-nail,  but  his  Violin  Concerto  is  still  the  most 
perfect  example  of  its  kind,  his  “Midsummer  Night’s 
Dream”  the  best  incidental  music  ever  conceived  for  a 
Shakespearean  play,  his  “Elijah”  the  most  dramatic 
oratorio  ever  written,  and  the  Scotch  and  Italian  Sym¬ 
phonies  still  possess  a  delightful  and  eternal  charm. 

The  works  of  Meyerbeer,  on  the  contrary,  have  de¬ 
servedly  disappeared  even  from  our  popular  programmes. 
Those  empty  “Torchlight  Dances”  and  the  vulgar  ballet 
music  from  “Le  Prophete”!  I  confess,  though,  that  I 
still  have  a  sneaking  fondness  for  the  “Coronation 
March,”  perhaps  because  I  had  to  conduct  it  so  many 
times  at  the  Metropolitan,  when  I  first  began  conduct¬ 
ing  the  operas  there.  That  the  same  man  who  penned 
the  glorious  fourth  act  of  the  “Huguenots”  could  have 
been  satisfied  with  the  empty  drivel  which  preponderates 
during  the  rest  of  that  opera,  is  one  of  the  eternal  mys¬ 
teries. 

About  thirty  years  ago  Moritz  Moszkowski  was  one 


356 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


of  the  most  popular  composers  of  the  day,  especially  for 
the  piano,  but  modern  ears  have  but  little  use  for  his 
delicate,  though  evanescent,  charm,  and  his  orchestral 
suites  are  but  rarely  heard  to-day.  He  has  lived  in 
Paris  for  many  years,  and  during  the  war  he  suffered 
greatly.  Advancing  years  and  a  long  illness  had  left 
him  very  weak,  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  musical 
world  in  which  he  had  been  so  popular  a  figure  had  for¬ 
gotten  him  completely. 

But  last  winter,  Ernest  Schelling,  one  of  our  best 
American  pianists,  and  an  old  friend  of  Moszkowski’s, 
conceived  the  happy  idea  of  giving  a  testimonial  concert 
in  his  honor,  which  should  be  thoroughly  original  in 
character.  He,  together  with  his  distinguished  colleague, 
Harold  Bauer,  accordingly  enlisted  the  co-operation  of 
twelve  other  celebrated  pianists  who  were  in  America 
during  the  winter.  This  list,  a  truly  remarkable  one, 
included  Elly  Ney,  Ignaz  Friedman,  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch, 
Rudolph  Ganz,  Leopold  Godowsky,  Percy  Grainger, 
Ernest  Hutcheson,  Alexander  Lambert,  Josef  Lhevinne, 
Yolanda  Mero,  Germaine  Schnitzer,  and  Sigismond 
Stojowski. 

Mr.  Flagler  offered  the  services  of  our  orchestra,  but 
as  the  stage  was  to  be  completely  filled  with  fourteen 
grand  pianos,  there  was  no  room  for  an  orchestra,  and  I 
had  to  content  myself  with  the  possibility  of  being  taken 
on  as  a  piano  mover,  as  I  longed  to  take  part  in  the  affair 
in  any  capacity.  The  morning  before  the  concert,  how¬ 
ever,  I  received  a  hurried  S.  O.  S.  telephone  call  from 
Ernest  Schelling.  He  said:  “Please  come  down  to 
Steinway’s  immediately  and  help  us  out.  The  fourteen 
pianists  are  all  here  for  rehearsal.  We  have  arranged 
for  several  compositions  to  be  played  by  all  of  us,  but 


FRITZ  KREISLER.  HAROLD  BAUER,  PABLO  CASALS,  AND  WALTER  DAMROSCH 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


357 


alas,  each  one  has  his  own  individual  interpretation,  and 
nothing  seems  to  make  us  play  together.  We  need  a 
conductor !” 

When  I  arrived  at  the  rehearsal  hall  the  confusion  was 
indeed  indescribable,  and  it  took  some  time  to  bring 
order  out  of  chaos.  Here  were  fourteen  of  the  world’s 
greatest  pianists,  veritable  prima  donnas  of  the  piano, 
but  several  had  never  learned  to  adapt  themselves  to 
play  together  for  a  common  musical  purpose,  and  when 
I  rapped  on  my  stand  for  silence  in  order  to  begin  the 
“Spanish  Dances”  of  Moszkowski,  at  least  five  or  six 
continued  their  infernal  improvising,  playing  of  scales, 
and  pianistic  fireworks.  By  using  heroic  measures  I  grad¬ 
ually  produced  a  semblance  of  order,  and  gave  the  signal 
for  the  beginning  of  the  music.  The  effect  was  extraor¬ 
dinary  !  Several  of  these  pianists  had  never  followed 
a  conductor’s  beat,  and  after  the  first  ten  bars,  two  of 
them  rushed  over  to  me,  the  one  violently  exclaiming 
that  the  tempo  was  too  fast,  and  the  other  insisting  with 
equal  vehemence  that  it  was  too  slow.  Finally  I  ob¬ 
tained  silence,  and  told  my  pianistic  orchestra  that  they 
were,  undoubtedly,  the  fourteen  greatest  pianists  in  the 
world,  and  that  the  interpretation  of  each  one  of  them 
was  undoubtedly  equally  the  greatest  in  the  world,  but 
as  they  represented  fourteen  different  grades  and  shades 
of  interpretation,  I  intended  to  take  the  matter  into  my 
own  hands  and  they  would  just  have  to  follow  my  beat 
whether  they  liked  my  tempo  or  not.  This  was  greeted 
with  a  roar  of  approval,  and  we  now  settled  down  to  the 
work  of  rehearsing  as  solemnly  as  if  these  prima  donnas 
of  the  ivories  were  orchestral  musicians  and  routined 
members  of  the  New  York  Musical  Union.  Order  fol¬ 
lowed  anarchy,  and  the  results  achieved  were  not  with- 


35§ 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


out  higher  artistic  interest,  especially  as  I  detailed  such 
accomplished  and  routined  musicians  as  Harold  Bauer, 
Ernest  Schelling,  and  Ossip  Gabrilowitsch  to  use  their 
own  discretion  in  “ orchestrating”  the  “Dances.”  Gabri¬ 
lowitsch,  for  instance,  reserved  himself  for  the  entrance  of 
the  “brasses”;  Bauer  invested  some  of  the  more  delicate 
portions  with  agile  runs  of  flutes  and  clarinets,  while 
Schelling  imitated  the  kettle-drums  and  cymbals  with 
thrilling  effect. 

Carnegie  Hall  was  jammed  and  the  audience  in  a  gale 
of  happiness  at  the  highly  original  proceedings.  The 
stage  was  so  crowded  with  the  fourteen  huge  pianos  that, 
after  threading  my  way  through  them  to  introduce 
Mme.  Alma  Gluck,  who  was  to  auction  off  one  of  the 
programmes,  I  said  that  what  this  concert  evidently 
needed  most  was  not  a  conductor  but  a  traffic  policeman. 

Perhaps  the  most  artistic  feature  of  the  programme 
was  the  performance  of  Schumann’s  “Carnival  Scenes,” 
in  which  each  little  movement  represents  a  separate 
carnival  figure.  The  fourteen  pianists  drew  lots  as  to 
which  was  to  play  which.  The  introduction  was  played 
by  all,  but  after  that,  in  quick  kaleidoscopic  succession, 
the  different  carnival  figures  fairly  danced  from  the  stage 
into  the  audience,  as  a  pianist  on  one  side  of  the  stage 
would  begin,  followed  by  one  from  the  other  side,  and  so 
on.  It  was  a  most  remarkable  opportunity  to  compare 
the  interpretative  characteristics  of  the  different  pianists. 

The  receipts  were  considerably  swelled  by  the  auction¬ 
ing  of  programmes  and  autographed  photographs  of 
Moszkowski,  and  fifteen  thousand  dollars  was  the  re¬ 
sult  of  an  entertainment  truly  unique  in  the  history  of 
music. 

The  most  popular  modern  symphonic  composer  in  the 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


359 


’70’s  was  Joachim  Raff.  He  was  a  young  Swiss  who, 
without  a  cent  in  his  pocket,  had  walked  many  miles 
from  his  little  village  in  order  to  hear  Liszt  play  at  a 
concert  in  Zurich.  Liszt  became  interested  in  his  un¬ 
doubted  talent,  and  took  him  with  him  to  Weimar  as 
musical  secretary.  Raff,  von  Biilow,  and  my  father  be¬ 
came  great  friends.  But  while  every  one  expected  that 
Raff  would  continue  as  a  true  disciple  of  Liszt’s,  and 
write  in  the  revolutionary  style  of  his  master,  he  grad¬ 
ually  turned  from  him  and  leaned  more  and  more  on 
classic  models,  although  in  several  of  his  symphonies  he 
retained  the  Lisztian  idea  of  programme  music.  As  he 
grew  older  his  conservatism  became  more  and  more 
marked.  He  had  great  facility  and  produced  works  in 
every  known  form  of  music,  and  his  vanity  gradually 
made  him  believe  that  his  string  quartets  were  equal  to 
Mozart’s,  his  symphonies  to  Beethoven’s,  and  his  ora¬ 
torios  to  Handel’s  and  Mendelssohn’s.  His  fecundity 
was  astonishing,  but  his  pen  too  fluent  for  real  musical 
depth.  There  was  hardly  a  winter,  however,  that  Theo¬ 
dore  Thomas  or  my  father  did  not  perform  “Im  Walde,” 
or  the  very  programmatic  “Lenore”  Symphony.  This 
work,  in  which  the  last  movement  follows  closely  and 
dramatically  Burger’s  famous  ballad,  had  an  enormous 
popularity,  and  is  occasionally  performed  by  us  to-day, 
but  in  general  the  name  of  Raff  means  but  little  to  mod¬ 
ern  concertgoers. 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  tragedy  of  all  was  Anton 
Rubinstein,  who  became,  after  Liszt,  the  world’s  greatest 
piano  virtuoso.  The  world  feted  him,  spoiled  him,  and 
sated  him  with  adulation.  It  all  brought  him  no  satis¬ 
faction.  He  was  consumed  with  the  ambition  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  a  great  composer,  and  wrote  incessantly,  never 


360 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


criticising  what  he  wrote.  His  “ Ocean”  Symphony  had 
a  tremendous  popularity  in  New  York  fifty  years  ago, 
but  to-day  no  one  would  listen  to  it.  His  “D  Minor 
Concerto”  has  been  played,  ad  nauseam ,  by  every  pianist, 
but  to-day  it  is  threadbare  and  frayed  at  the  edges. 
Only  the  supreme  skill  of  a  Josef  Hofmann  can  make  his 
“G  Major  Concerto”  endurable  and  cloak  its  musical 
emptiness.  He  wrote  opera  after  opera  in  a  feverish  de¬ 
sire  to  eclipse  Wagner,  whom  he  hated,  and  whose  popu¬ 
larity  he  envied,  and  after  “Parsifal”  had  been  proclaimed 
at  Bayreuth  as  a  “Sacred  Festival  Play,”  he  imme¬ 
diately  proceeded  to  write  an  opera  on  the  life  of  Christ, 
which  is  so  dull  and  unconvincing  that  it  has  hardly  had  a 
performance  anywhere. 

His  personal  popularity  was  so  great  that  PoIIini,  the 
astute  manager  of  the  Hamburg  Opera,  occasionally  used 
to  put  on  one  of  his  operas  on  condition  that  he  himself 
would  come  to  Hamburg  to  conduct  the  opening  perform¬ 
ance.  His  presence  would  insure  a  crowded  house. 

At  the  last  rehearsal  of  one  of  these  operas  Rubinstein 
was  so  well  pleased  with  the  work  of  the  orchestra  that 
he  turned  to  them  and  said:  “Gentlemen,  if  my  opera  is 
a  success  you  must  all  come  to  my  hotel  after  the  per¬ 
formance  for  a  champagne  supper.”  Unfortunately,  the 
opera  was  a  decided  frost  and  the  audience  so  unde¬ 
monstrative  that  Rubinstein,  in  absolute  disgust,  laid 
down  the  stick  after  the  second  act,  and,  bidding  the 
local  conductor  finish  the  opera,  returned  dejectedly  to 
his  hotel  and  went  to  bed.  At  eleven  o’clock  there  was 
a  knock  at  his  door.  “Who  is  it?”  he  shouted  in  great 
irritation.  “It  is  I,  Herr  Rubinstein,  the  double-bass 
player  from  the  opera  orchestra.”  “What  do  you 
want?”  “I  have  come  for  the  champagne  supper.” 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


“What  nonsense !”  raged  Rubinstein.  “The  opera  was  a 
ghastly  failure.”  “Well,  Herr  Rubinstein,”  answered  the 
thirsty  and  undaunted  double-bass  player,  “J  liked  it!” 

The  disappearance  of  Schumann’s  symphonies  from 
concert  programmes  is  due  to  the  fact  that  he  was  never 
at  ease  in  writing  for  the  orchestra.  His  instrumentation 
is  so  thick  and  turgid  as  to  be  the  despair  of  conductors. 
So  much  of  the  music  is  exquisite,  but  it  is  like  a  precious 
jewel  imbedded  in  a  foreign  substance  which  conductors 
try  in  vain  to  remove  by  changing  the  dynamics  of  this 
or  that  instrument,  or  by  leaving  out  an  unnecessary 
doubling  up  of  certain  harmonies.  All  these  devices, 
however,  can  do  but  little.  More  heroic  measures  are 
necessary,  and  I  was  much  interested  last  summer  when 
Sir  Edward  Elgar  asked  me  what  I  would  think  of  his 
deliberately  reorchestrating  an  entire  symphony  of  Schu¬ 
mann’s.  I  heartily  applauded  such  an  idea  and  begged 
him  to  carry  it  out  speedily  as  there  is  perhaps  no  one 
living  to-day  who  better  understands  the  colors  of  the  or¬ 
chestra  and  knows  how  to  produce  the  most  subtle  shades 
in  the  intermingling  of  the  different  instruments.  In  the 
meantime  Frederick  Stock,  the  noted  conductor  of  the 
Chicago  Orchestra,  has  taken  the  bull  by  the  horns  and 
has  written  a  new  orchestration  of  Schumann’s  “Rhenish 
Symphony”  which  I  hope  to  produce  this  winter. 

Are  Sousa’s  marches  played  nowadays?  They  should 
be.  They  are  better  than  the  military  marches  of  Europe 
of  to-day,  and  while  one  cannot  put  them  into  the  cate¬ 
gory  of  higher  musical  efforts  they  are  the  only  American 
compositions  of  musical  worth  that  have  triumphantly 
blazed  their  way  all  over  the  world. 

Richard  Strauss,  who  twenty-five  years  ago  was  the 
most  interesting  star  in  the  musical  firmament,  has  lived 


362 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


long  enough  to  have  outlived  a  part  of  his  popularity. 
He  never  originated  a  musical  form,  but  accepted  the 
symphonic  poem  of  Liszt  and  the  music-drama  of  Wagner 
as  models.  His  workmanship  is  infinitely  greater  than 
Liszt’s,  his  counterpoint  stupendous  in  its  boldness,  and 
in  his  treatment  of  the  orchestra  he  sometimes  transcends 
even  Wagner  in  the  originality  of  his  orchestral  combina¬ 
tions.  But  his  compositions  lack  the  ideality  of  either  of 
these  masters,  and  because  of  this  and  in  spite  of  his  mar- 
vellous  paraphernalia,  his  works  seem  to  carry  within 
them  the  seeds  of  their  own  decay. 

The  gods  endowed  this  man  at  his  birth  perhaps  more 
richly  than  any  other  musician  of  our  time,  but  something 
within  him  has  made  him  relinquish  the  greatest  of  their 
gifts  and  has  turned  him  to  less  pure  ideals.  In  the  “Sin- 
fonia  Domestica”  the  daily  life  of  husband,  wife,  and 
baby  are  characterized  by  an  orchestra  of  one  hundred 
and  ten  players  with  such  noisy  fury  and  realistic  prose 
as  to  give  one  an  altogether  distorted  insight  into  what  is 
supposedly  a  page  from  the  composer’s  diary.  But  the 
music  descriptive  of  the  composer  who,  after  these  dread¬ 
ful  domestic  squabbles,  retires  to  his  workroom,  lights 
his  lamp,  and  begins  to  communicate  with  his  muse,  is  so 
beautiful  as  to  fill  us  with  a  deep  regret  that  one  so  winged 
for  flight  in  the  ether  should  be  so  content  to  walk  on  the 
earth. 

The  instrumental  devices,  depicting  Don  Quixote  s  ad¬ 
venture  with  the  sheep  and  his  fight  with  the  windmill, 
which  aroused  such  astonishment  and  admiration  when 
they  were  first  heard,  have  already  lost  their  effect  and  are 
listened  to  to-day  with  hardly  a  smile.  The  final  scene, 
however,  depicting  the  dying  of  Don  Quixote ,  is  so  beauti¬ 
ful  and  tragic  in  its  expression  as  to  bring  tears  to  the 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


363 


listener.  The  “Heldenleben”  is  to  me  a  work  of  noisy 
bombastic  emptiness  from  beginning  to  end,  and  one 
might  call  it  typical  of  certain  German  currents  of  to¬ 
day.  It  would,  however,  be  manifestly  unfair  to  call  it 
typically  German,  as  a  race  that  has  produced  Bach, 
Mozart,  Beethoven,  and  Wagner  will  surely  find  other 
men  to  continue  their  glorious  traditions. 

A  composer’s  fame  is  not  affirmed  by  professional  mu¬ 
sicians  but  by  the  general  public  whose  judgment  in  the 
end  is  infallible.  A  great  masterwork  that  is  not  destroyed 
will  always  eventually  be  recognized  as  such  whether,  like 
the  “Venus  de  Milo,”  it  has  Iain  hidden  for  centuries  be¬ 
neath  the  earth  or,  like  the  “Matthew  Passion”  of  Bach, 
equally  hidden  in  the  dusty  shelves  of  the  Royal  Library 
of  Berlin,  to  be  rediscovered  by  Mendelssohn  and  pro¬ 
nounced  the  greatest  religious  choral  work  ever  written. 

The  two  works  of  Strauss  which  have  retained  their 
popularity  with  the  public  are  undoubtedly  his  best,  as 
their  requirements  do  not  enlist  such  qualities  as  he 
does  not  possess  or  has  not  sought  to  develop.  In  “Till 
Eulenspiegel  ”  Strauss’s  talent  for  mordant  realism  finds 
full  expression.  The  wild  pranks  of  Eulenspiegel  follow 
each  other  in  mad,  cynical  humor,  and,  in  the  limited 
form  of  programme  music,  the  work  is  flawless. 

His  “Salome”  is  as  perfect  a  union  with  Oscar  Wilde’s 
marvellous  play  as  the  “Pelleas”  and  “Melisande”  of 
Maeterlinck  and  Debussy.  In  both  the  composers  have 
so  steeped  themselves  in  the  spirit  of  the  poem  as  to  en¬ 
hance  its  beauty.  But  with  all  my  admiration  for 
“Salome”  I  have  never  been  able  to  sit  through  the 
final  scene  without  a  feeling  of  disgust,  which  sometimes 
mounted  even  to  physical  nausea.  When  Salome  sings 
her  horrible  love  music  to  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist  it 


364 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


has  always  seemed  to  me  a  parody  on  the  glorious  finale 
of  “  Tristan  and  Isolde.” 

I  have  spoken  in  another  chapter  of  Tschaikowsky’s 
visit  to  America  in  1891  as  a  guest  of  the  Symphony 
Society.  For  twenty-five  years  his  popularity  was  enor¬ 
mous  and  the  mere  announcement  of  his  “Symphonie 
Pathetique”  was  sufficient  to  draw  a  crowded  house. 
His  symphonies  appeared  more  often  on  our  concert 
programmes  than  those  of  any  other  composer.  They 
have  a  rhythmic  and  elemental  strength  which  appealed 
even  to  the  unmusical,  but  to-day  a  distinct  lessening  of 
this  popularity  is  noticeable.  There  is  a  lack  of  real  sym¬ 
phonic  development  of  his  themes,  and  certain  crudities 
of  workmanship  stand  out  more  clearly  as  the  works 
have  become  better  known.  Young  conductors,  anxious 
for  ready  and  cheap  applause,  still  choose  one  of  his  sym¬ 
phonies  for  their  debut,  and  the  melodic  charm  of  his 
lighter  music,  if  not  heard  too  often,  will  retain  its  place 
in  the  affection  of  our  public  for  some  time  longer. 

And  now  we  come  to  the  greatest  genius  of  the  nine¬ 
teenth  century — Richard  Wagner.  “What!”  exclaims 
my  reader.  “Do  you  consider  him  dead?”  God  for¬ 
bid  !  The  wings  of  his  genius  are  still  soaring  aloft  in 
the  ether,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  attitude  of  the 
world  of  to-day  toward  his  music  is  absolutely  different 
from  that  of  fifty  or  sixty  years  ago  when  he  first  elec¬ 
trified  or  infuriated  a  public,  amazed  at  his  daring  inno¬ 
vations.  The  inevitable  has  happened — Wagner  has  be¬ 
come  a  “classic.” 

I  was  a  boy  of  fifteen  when  I  heard  the  first  perform¬ 
ance  of  “Lohengrin”  at  the  old  Academy  of  Music.  The 
opera  was  sung  in  Italian  with  Italo  Campanini  as  Lohen¬ 
grin,  Valeria  as  Elsa,  and  our  own  Anne  Louise  Cary  as 


WALTER  DAMROSCH  GIVING  A  WAGNER  LECTURE  RECITAL  AT  THE  PIANO 


DEAD  COMPOSERS 


365 


Ortrude .  The  conductor  was  old  Luigi  Arditi.  I  sat  in 
the  front  row  in  the  family  circle,  and  was  so  excited  by 
the  drama  and  the  music  that  at  the  end  of  the  double 
male  chorus — which  accompanies  the  approach  of  Lohen¬ 
grin  in  the  boat  drawn  by  the  swan  as  the  God-sent  de¬ 
liverer  of  Elsa — the  tears  rushed  down  my  cheeks.  But 
they  were  happy  tears  and  a  natural  relief  from  the  ten¬ 
sion  which  the  music  had  created  in  me. 

Each  succeeding  opera  of  Wagner’s  was  a  similar 
revelation.  I  pored  over  the  scores  of  the  “Nibelungen 
Trilogy”  during  every  hour  left  me  from  school  work 
and  piano  practice.  In  fact,  I  often  stole  time  from  the 
latter  and  would  gladly  have  given  up  my  entire  school  if 
my  parents  had  not  very  properly  kept  me  where  I  be¬ 
longed.  Later  on  my  founding  of  the  Damrosch  Opera 
Company  for  the  sole  purpose  of  producing  Wagner 
operas  seemed  an  inner  necessity,  and  I  was  driven  to  it 
by  a  force  stronger  than  myself.  For  years  a  Wagner 
programme,  whether  it  was  at  a  symphony  concert  in  New 
York,  or  in  Oklahoma  on  a  Western  tour,  or  at  the  Willow 
Grove  summer  concerts,  drew  the  largest  audiences, 
and  the  same  orchestral  excerpts  were  repeated  by  me 
and  other  conductors  year  after  year  and  received  by  our 
public  with  excited  enthusiasm.  To-day  the  amazement 
which  his  music  called  forth  is  no  longer  apparent.  He 
is  admired  and  loved,  but  the  nerves  of  the  younger  gen¬ 
eration  are  not  thrilled  by  his  harmonies  as  ours  were. 
His  works  repose  upon  our  shelves  bound  in  morocco  and 
gold  and  occupy  places  of  honor,  but,  alas,  on  several 
of  them  the  dust  is  beginning  to  gather  and  many  of  the 
young  people  of  to-day  find  “Lohengrin”  monotonous, 
and  vote  unanimously  that  Tannhauser  s  recital  of  his 
pilgrimage  to  Rome  is  too  long. 


366 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


Time  and  continued  occupation  with  Wagner’s  music 
may  have  made  me  more  critical  and  analytical,  and  I 
am  no  longer  in  complete  and  enthusiastic  accord  with 
some  of  his  theories  regarding  the  music-drama.  But 
much  of  his  music  still  sweeps  me  off  my  feet,  and  his 
“Meistersinger” — which  is  so  happy  and  perfect  a  com¬ 
promise  between  the  opera  and  the  music-drama — is  to 
me  still  the  greatest  musical  work  of  our  times. 

I  have  spoken  above  of  the  finality  of  the  judgment  of 
the  public  regarding  the  ultimate  vitality  of  an  art  work. 
Conductors  have  had  their  personal  convictions  and  have 
tried  to  force  them  upon  our  audiences,  but  unless  these 
convictions  were  based  on  actual  worth  the  public  has 
in  the  end  consciously  or  unconsciously  rejected  them. 
Sometimes  unworthy  composers  have  had  momentary 
popularity,  but  they  were  born  but  to  dance  in  the  sun 
for  one  day  and  then  to  die. 

My  orchestral  parts  of  the  symphonies  of  Beethoven, 
Mozart,  and  Brahms  are  old  and  worn  by  many  rehearsals 
and  performances,  and  some  of  them  have  been  patched 
up  and  pasted  together  by  my  librarian  so  many  times 
that  they  have  had  to  be  replaced  by  new  ones  twice 
over.  I  have  performed  them  for  nearly  forty  years,  and 
the  grandchildren  of  my  audiences  of  1885  are  now  listen¬ 
ing  to  them  with  equal  happiness.  A  few  years  ago  I 
discovered  a  lovely  symphony  by  Mozart,  which  had 
never  been  played  in  New  York,  and  I  was  as  proud  of 
this  as  if  it  had  been  the  fourth  dimension. 

The  works  of  these  masters  are  lifted  above  the  fashion 
of  the  moment,  and  their  creators  smile  upon  us  serenely 
and  eternally  from  the  heavens  in  which  they  dwell  as 
gods  among  the  gods. 


POSTLUDE 


These  reminiscences  were  begun  in  New  York  in  April, 
1922,  and  finished  the  following  August  in  Bar  Harbor, 
Maine.  My  friends  had  urged  me  for  some  time  to  write 
down  my  experiences  because  they  thought  that  the 
many  and  varied  events  in  a  long  musical  life  would 
prove  interesting  to  American  musicians  and  readers 
generally. 

I  do  not  know.  On  re-reading  the  foregoing  pages 
in  the  proof-sheets  I  feel  that  many  happenings  which 
seemed  of  great  importance  to  me  may  prove  but  dull 
reading  to  others.  But  at  least  I  have  tried  to  tell  a 
truthful  tale  and  to  give  an  honest  account  of  my  as¬ 
pirations  and  struggles. 

I  have  climbed  a  few  hills,  but  only  to  see  the  moun¬ 
tains  beyond  rising  higher  and  higher,  the  path  upward 
often  indiscernible  through  the  mists  surrounding  the 
peaks. 

I  love  the  people  among  whom  my  father  settled  be¬ 
cause  he  firmly  believed  that  in  America  his  children 
would  have  a  greater  opportunity  for  development  than 
in  old  Europe. 

The  musical  field  in  America  is  certainly  wonderful  in 
its  possibilities,  and  all  my  life  I  have  reached  out  with 
both  hands  and  have  worked  incessantly  and  enthusi¬ 
astically  in  my  calling.  In  part  at  least  I  have  tried  to 
repay  what  I  owe  to  my  compatriots  for  their  confidence 
and  help.  But  the  power  of  the  individual  is  compara- 

367 


368 


MY  MUSICAL  LIFE 


tively  small,  and  while  our  musicians  have  already  ac¬ 
complished  miracles  within  the  short  period  that  music 
has  played  a  part  in  our  civilization,  so  much  yet  remains 
to  be  done  that  I  long  for  at  least  one  hundred  more  years 
of  life,  partly  to  continue  my  work  but  still  more  to 
satisfy  my  eager  curiosity  as  to  the  musical  future  of  our 
people. 

If  this  book  serves  to  encourage  my  younger  colleagues 
in  their  efforts  to  increase  the  love  and  appreciation  of 
music  in  our  country,  it  has  not  been  written  in  vain. 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Henry,  104,  106  ff.,  113,  116, 

121  ff.,  129  /.,  et  passim 
Abbey,  Schoeffel,  and  Grau,  51  ff.,  72, 
113,  116,  121,  130,  133,  182 
Abbott,  Lawrence,  31 
Abt,  Franz,  75 

Academy  of  Music,  52,  116,  118,  120 
Accademia  Santa  Cecilia,  295  ff. 
Achenbach,  Andreas,  142 
“Acis  and  Galatea”  (Handel),  178 
Adamowski,  Tim  and  Joe,  149 
JE olian  Hall,  219 
Tischylus,  346 
Allan,  Mr.,  295 
Allen,  General,  41 
Allen,  Sir  Hugh,  319 
Alvary,  Frau,  137 

Alvary,  Max,  63,  109  ff.,  112,  130,  142 
ff M  172,  211 
Amato,  152 

American  Academy  in  Rome,  302  ff. 
“American  Friends  of  Musicians  in 
France,”  221  ff.,  239,  244 
American  women  and  music,  323  ff. 
Andersen,  “Fairy  Tales,”  5 
Anderson,  Mary,  51 
Anglin,  Margaret,  19,  344/. 

“Arabian  Nights,”  5 
Architecture,  285 
Arditi,  Luigi,  365 
Arion  Society,  9,  12,  25,  27 
Arnold,  Matthew,  90 
Arnold,  Richard,  208  ff. 

Auber,  351 
Auer,  2 

Augustus  Caesar,  296 
Austro-Prussian  War,  1866,  1 

B - ,  Madame,  87  ff. 

Bach,  23,  57,  75,  152,  169,  171,  181, 
262,  363 

Backhaus,  Wilhelm,  217 
Baermann,  47 

369 


Ballay,  Captain,  235 
Banda  Communale  di  Roma,  297  ff. 
Bandmaster’s  School,  251  ff.,  31 1  ff. 
Bandsmen  in  American  army,  233  ff., 
247/. 

Barr£re,  George,  46,  194  ff. 

Baton,  Rhene,  228 
Bauer,  Harold,  356  ff. 

Bayreuth,  143,  et  passim 
Beale,  Walker  Blaine,  18  ff. 
Beethoven,  9,  33,  40,  75  ff.,  81,  83  ff., 
86,  88,  97,  99,  120,  148,  153,  155, 
157, 164, 190,  196,  216  ff.,  259  ff.,  262, 
278  ff.,  282,  292,  298,  324  ff.,  338, 
340,  346,  366,  et  passim 
Belcher,  Zach,  35 
Benedetti,  7,  41 

Berlioz,  Hector,  23,  27,  31  ff.,  34,  43, 
164,  180,  278,  292,  337 
Berthold,  Barron,  115 
Bible,  5 

Bigelow,  Doctor  Sturgis,  120 
Bismarck,  2,  41,  140 
Bispham,  David,  19,  115,  129,  132, 
159#. 

Blaine,  Emmons,  20  ff.,  101 
Blaine,  Harriet,  91 

Blaine,  James  G.,  90  ff.,  95  ff.,  100  ff. 
Blaine,  Mrs.  James  G.,  90  ff.,  95  ff.,  101 
Blaine,  Margaret  (later  Mrs.  Walter 
Damrosch),  90  ff.,  97,  100  ff.,  103, 
118,  121,  129,  291  ff. 

Blaine,  Walker,  103 
Blanc,  M.,  293  ff. 

Bliss,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert,  241. 
Boccaccio,  304^. 

Boeckelman,  11 

Boieldieu,  60 

Boito,  144 

Bonnet,  M.,  31 1 

Bonsai,  Stephen,  96 

Bordeaux  concert,  1920,  284  ff. 

Boston  musical  affairs,  333  ff. 

Boston  Symphony  Orchestra,  22,  123, 


370 


INDEX 


128,  150,  186,  207,  210  /.,  236,  268, 
330,  333  ff.,  et  passim 
Boulanger,  Mile.  Lili,  258 
Boulanger,  Mile.  Nadia,  156,  238,  258 
279 

Bowing,  320 
Boyd,  Colonel,  264 

Brahms,  23,  25/.,  47,  79/.,  86/.,  183, 
184,  217,  259,  319,  324/-,  338,  346, 
352,  366 

Brandt,  Marianne,  53,  60,  65,  73,  140 
ff;  1 72 

Brema,  Marie,  109,  III  ff. 

Brisbane,  Arthur,  96 
British  music,  319/. 

Bronsart,  Hans  von,  7 
Brown  (coachman),  119 
Bruch,  144 

Bruckner,  Anton,  352  /. 

Bruneau,  Albert,  31 1  ff. 

Brussels  concert,  1920,  314  ff. 

Bryce,  Viscount,  321 
Btilow,  Hans  von,  2  /.,  6  /.,  39,  54, 
74- ff;  15 7,  216,  300,  359,  et  passim 
Bundy,  General  Omar,  246  /.,  249 
Burger,  359 
Burns,  Robert,  94 

Calderon,  37,  346 
“Caligula  Seidenschwanz,”  84/. 
Callender,  Miss  Mary  R.,  106,  215 
Callender,  May,  85 
Calv6,  Madame,  122,  162 
Cambridge  University,  144  ff. 
Campanari,  306/. 

Campanini,  Italo,  121,  364 
Caplet,  Andre,  255 
Carnegie,  Andrew,  go  ff.,  113,  143 
Carnegie  Hall,  94/.,  143,  179,  183,  219, 
349,  358 

Carnegie,  Louise,  90 
Carreno,  Madame  Teresa,  28,  167 
Carter,  Ernest,  240,  242 
Cary,  Anne  Louise,  364 
Casadesus,  Francis,  250,  254  ff.,  264, 
310/. 

Casadesus,  Henri,  156,  221  ff.,  238,  240, 
3ii 

Casella,  301 

Chamber-music  in  New  York,  331  ff. 
Ch&teau-Thierry,  231 


Chaumont,  Band  school  at,  251  ff., 
3ii  /• 

Chausson,  260 
Cherubini,  353 
Chicago  Orchestra,  204,  21 1 
Chicago,  “Tannhauser”  in,  57  ff. 
Chickering  Piano  Company,  74 
Children  and  music,  326  ff. 

Chopin,  166 

Christmas  celebrations,  17  ff. 
“Christus”  (Liszt),  49/. 

Clemenceau,  M.,  147,  224 
Coates,  Albert,  319 
Collins,  Lieutenant-Colonel,  245,  249, 
264 

Cologne  Music  Festival,  86/. 
Columbia  Theatre,  Chicago,  58  ff. 
Coman,  Miss  Wynne,  198  ff. 
Conductors  and  conducting,  45  ff.,  64 
ff;  et  passim 
Conried,  Heinrich,  173/ 
Conservatoire  Orchestra,  party,  282 
Converse  College  for  Women,  192 
Cook  (Thomas)  and  Sons,  276  ff.,  315 
Cooke,  19 

Coolidge,  Mrs.  Frederick  S.,  331 
Coppinger,  Mrs.,  100,  103 
Cornelius,  Peter,  43,  66,  184 
Cortada,  32 

Cortot,  Alfred,  155,  222,  231,  235,  238, 
3H 

Cowdin,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  E.,  147 
Cowen,  23 

Cravath,  Paul,  238  ff. 

Croix  Rouge  Frangaise,  234 
“Cyrano”  (Damrosch  opera),  150/. 

d’Agoult,  Countess,  164 
d’ Albert,  Eugene,  40,  187 
Damrosch,  Alice  (later  Mrs.  Penning¬ 
ton),  19,  238,  265,  267/.,  270/ 
Damrosch,  Anita,  270 
Damrosch,  Clara  (Mrs.  Mannes),  214 
Damrosch-Ellis  Opera  Company,  123 
Damrosch,  Frank,  iff.,  10,  58,  102,  179, 
182/.,  217,  254,  327/ 

Damrosch,  Gretchen,  (later  Mrs. 

Thomas  Finletter)  154,  285 
Damrosch,  Hans,  1 

Damrosch,  Doctor  Leopold  (father  of 
author),  2,  5/.,  10/.,  22  ff.,  36,  52 


INDEX 


37i 


ff,  74.  79.  86,  90,  97,  140  ff.,  149, 
169/.,  35i.  ££  passim 
Damrosch,  Mrs.  Leopold  (mother  of 
author),  1 

Damrosch,  Marie  (Tante),  4,  10,  175 
Damrosch  Opera  Company,  16,  67,  69, 
104 129,  134,  205,  276,  334,  365, 
et  passim 

Damrosch,  Mrs.  Walter  (Margaret 
Blaine),  90/.,  97,  100  ff.,  103,  118, 
121,  129,  291  ff. 

Dana,  Charles  A.,  14 
David  Mannes  Music  School,  214 
Davis,  Ambassador,  321 
Dawes,  General  Charles,  243,  262 
Debussy,  238,  260,  353,  363 
Defoe,  “Robinson  Crusoe,”  10 
de  Forest,  Miss  Caroline,  85,  106,  215 
Deis,  Karl,  191 

de  Reszke,  Edouard,  129  ff .,  149 

de  Reszke,  Jean,  129  ff.,  149, 159,  292  ff. 

de  Reszke,  Madame  Jean,  292  ff. 

de  Vere,  Madame,  178 

Dewey,  Admiral,  179  ff. 

di  Lasso,  Orlando,  184 

d’Indy,  Vincent,  278  ff. 

di  Sabata,  Victor,  301 

Dodge,  Miss  (Gail  Hamilton),  95,  99 

Doll’s  theatre,  14  ff. 

Draesecke,  Felix,  6 
Drew,  John,  199 
Dubois,  Theodore,  279 
Duff-Gordon,  Lady,  304 
Du  Maurier,  319 
Dumesnil,  M.,  31 1  ff. 

Dvof&k,  Anton,  155,  183 

Eaton,  Doctor  Charles,  95 
Elgar,  Sir  Edward,  183,  319,  361 
Ellacott,  Captain,  255 
Eller,  Joseph,  no 
Ellis,  Charles,  123  Jf.,  128  ff. 

Emma,  Queen  Mother  of  Holland, 

317 

Endicott,  Governor,  115 
Engelhardt,  Frau,  69  ff. 

Engles,  George,  200,  273,  276,  282,  284, 
287  ff. 

Euripides,  344,  346 
European  tour,  1920,  272  ff. 


Fairchild,  Blair,  244 
Faure,  Gabriel,  260,  279,  282 
Faversham,  Julie,  19 
Ferrero,  304 
Festival  of  1881,  30  Jf. 

Finci,  Signor,  306 
Finletter,  Judge,  154 
Fischer,  Emil,  63,  66,  105,  109,  134^., 
172,  178 

Fischer,  Mrs.  Emil,  1 35  ff. 

Flagler,  Harry  Harkness,  136,  186,  210, 
218,  222,  239,  272  ff.,  322,  349,  356 
Flagler,  Mrs.  Harry  Harkness,  218 
Flagler,  Mary,  285 
Florence  concert,  1920,  304 
Foch,  General,  246  ff. 

Folk-music,  323 

Fontainebleau  concert,  1920,  312 
Fontainebleau  summer  music-school, 
3ii 

Fourth  of  July,  Paris,  231  ff.,  248 
Fragnaud,  M.,  31 1  ff. 

Franck,  Cesar,  43,  74,  155,  238,  257, 
281,  316 

Franko,  Sam,  149 
Franz  Joseph,  Emperor,  353 
Franz,  Robert,  177 
Frederick,  Crown  Prince,  2 
Friedman,  Ignaz,  356  ff. 

Frohman,  Daniel,  21 1 
Frothingham,  Mr.  O.  B.,  333 
Furniss,  Sophie  and  Tina,  118  ff. 
Furst,  William,  349 

Gabrilowitsch,  Ossip,  356  ff. 

Gade,  Niels  W.,  353 

Gadski,  Johanna,  109,  115,  1 18,  122, 

129  ff- 

Ganz,  Rudolph,  356  ff. 

Garde  Republicaine,  235 
Gardner,  Mrs.  John  L.,  115,  333  ff. 
Gartlan,  Mr.,  327 
Genoa  concert,  1920,  294  ff. 

George  II,  King,  176 
George  V,  King,  273 
Gericke,  Wilhelm,  333,  335  ff. 

German  music  during  the  war,  260  ff. 
German  Opera  at  the  Metropolitan,  51 
ff,  et  passim. 

Giucciardi,  Countess,  164 
Gladstone,  92 


372 


INDEX 


Gluck,  6o 

Gluck,  Mme.  Alma,  358 
Godowsky,  Leopold,  356  ff. 

Goethe,  37,  49,  262,  346 
Goettich,  Hans,  71,  200 
Goldmark,  Carl,  353  ff. 

Goldmark,  Leo,  88 
Goosens,  Eugene,  319 
Gounod,  54,  286 
Grainger,  Percy,  356/. 

Grau,  Maurice,  104  ff.,  113,  116,  120, 
121,  ff.,  124,  129,  148,  160,  206,  300, 
316 

Grau  Opera  Company,  162,  et  passim 
Greek  plays,  344  ff. 

Greek  Theatre,  Berkeley,  Calif.,  344  ff. 
Grell,  Edward,  180  ff. 

Grew,  Mr.,  283 
Grieg,  144 

Grimm,  “Fairy  Tales,”  5 
Guegnier,  Captain,  259 

Haenselt,  2 
Halevy,  65 

Hamilton,  Gail  (Miss  Dodge),  95,  99 
Handel,  23,  33#.,  169/.,  175/.,  181, 

183 

Hanslick,  Mr.,  353 
Hanson,  Howard,  302 
Harris,  Doctor  and  Mrs.  George,  19 
Harrison,  Benjamin,  98,  100 
Harvard  University,  161 
Haven,  George,  123 
Hawthorne,  “The  Scarlet  Letter,”  114 
ff.,  121,  160 
Haydn,  23,  181,  183 
Healy,  48 

Hegemann,  Mme.  de,  29 
Henderson,  William  J.,  109 
Henschel,  George,  150 
Herbert,  Victor,  237 
Herty,  152 

Hesse,  Landgravine,  and  Prince  of, 

79/. 

Hewitt,  236 

Higginson,  Colonel  Henry  Lee,  22,  150, 
186,  205,  207,  333,  336,  338,  341,  343 
Hock,  Wilhelm,  54 
Hofmann,  Josef,  360 
Hohenlohe,  Cardinal  Prince,  48 
Holland  concerts,  1920,  317#. 


Homer,  “Iliad”  and  “Odyssey,”  4 
House,  Colonel,  147 
Hulsen,  Baron  von,  85 
Hutcheson,  Ernest,  356  ff. 

Hyde,  E.  Francis,  208 

Institute  of  Musical  Art,  183 
Italy,  new  musical  development  in. 
299/. 

Jackson,  Schuyler  Brinkerhoff,  35 
Jazz  music,  268 
Jeanne  (pianist),  166 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  263 
Joachim,  2  ff. 

Johnson,  Reber,  236 
Johnson,  Robert  Underwood,  275  ff., 
301 

Joseffy,  187 

Joukowski,  Baron  von,  39,  47  ff. 
Jurgenson,  145 

Kalisch,  Paul,  66  ff. 

Kant,  262 

Kautsky  and  Briosky,  109 
Kelley,  Lieutenant,  262 
Kerensky,  283 

Klafsky,  Madame  Katherine,  m,  114, 
1 17,  120  ff. 

Knabe  Piano  Company,  23 
Kneisel,  Franz,  336 
Kochanski,  Paul,  149 
Kossman,  74 
Kraemer,  172 
Krauss,  Ernst,  138 
Kreisler,  Fritz,  152,  340 
Kubelik,  187 

Lafere,  M.,  272 
La  Fontaine,  157 
Lambert,  Alexander,  149,  356  ff. 
Lamond,  Major  Felix,  303 
Lamperti,  142,  160 
Lassen,  14,  3 7  ff.,  48 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons,  115 
Laub,  7 
Lorenziti,  238 

Lehmann,  Lilli,  63  JT.,  85  JJ.,  hi,  122, 
130,  132 

Lehmann,  Marie,  67 
Lekeu  (the  elder),  316 


INDEX 


373 


Lekeu,  Guillaume,  316 
Leon,  Paul,  282,  31 1,  313 
Lettelier,  47 
Levi,  Herman,  42 
Lhevinne,  Josef,  356  ff. 

Liebling,  Max,  28 
Lindemann,  47 

Liszt,  Franz,  2  ff.,  6,  14,  23,  36/.,  66, 
74,  97,  146,  148/.,  154,  156/.,  164, 
181,  337,  354,  359,  362 
Littleton,  Augustus,  273,  321 
Loeb,  James,  183 
Loeffler,  Charles  Martin,  149  ff. 
London  concerts,  1920,  318  ff. 

London  Telegraph,  97 

London  Times,  97 

Longfellow,  Ernest,  49 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth,  48,  340 

Longy,  236 

Louise  (pianist),  166 

Louisville,  Southern  Exposition,  190  ff. 

Lund,  John,  58,  61 

MacKenzie,  Sir  Alexander,  319 
Maeterlinck,  15 1,  363 
Mahler,  Gustav,  138,  352,  354/. 
Malipiero,  301 
Mancinelli,  Signor,  300 
Mangeot,  M.,  31 1 
“Manila  Te  Deum,”  179  ff. 

Mannes,  David,  214 
Mannes,  Mrs.  David  (Clara  Dam- 
rosch),  214 

Mannes  (David)  Music  School,  214 
Mantel,  M.,  154,  228 
Mapleson,  Colonel,  51  ff. 

Marburg,  University  of,  81  ff. 
Marseilles  concerts,  1920,  287  ff. 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  98 
Materna,  Madame,  53,  55,  59  ff.,  105, 
140 

Mathieu,  46 
McCormick,  Anita,  101 
McKim,  Miss  Letty,  265,  267 
McLane,  Thomas,  223,  239 
Meiningen,  Orchestra  of  Grand  Duke 
of,  77 

Melba,  Madame  Nellie,  123,  129,  155 
Mendelssohn,  23,  28,  34,  181,  344,  355, 

363 

Mendelssohn  Choir,  Toronto,  171 


Meredith,  George,  304 
Mero,  Yolanda,  356  ff. 

Messager,  Andre,  261,  279,  282 
“Messiah"  (Handel),  175  ff. 
Metropolitan  Opera  House,  New  York, 
5i  ff 55  ff 61  ff.,  69,  72,  80,  88, 
104  ff>,  1 16,  122,  123/.,  129,  134, 
136,  142,  148,  160,  170,  1 72  ff.,  183, 
206,  292,  300,  316,  355 
Metz  concert,  1920,  309  ff. 

Meyerbeer,  55,  64/.,  85,  355 
Milan  concert,  1920,  306  ff. 

Minna  (Swedish  nurse),  18 
Moliere,  346 

Molinari,  Maestro,  296  ff. 

Moltke,  2 

Monte  Carlo  concert,  1920,  291  ff. 
Monteux,  Pierre,  343 
Morley,  John,  92,  95,  100 
Moszkowski,  Moritz,  355  ff. 

Mozart,  23, 155, 177,  190,  257,  259,  281, 
300,  3I5#m  325,  366 
Muck,  Doctor  Karl,  225  ff.,  33  j  ff. 
Music  Festival  Association,  30  ff. 
Musical  Union,  212 
Musin,  Ovide,  97,  319 

Napoleon  III,  8,  29 
National  Federation  of  Musicians,  213 
Neilson,  Mrs.  James,  25 
Neuendorf,  55 

New  York  Festival  Chorus,  32 
New  York  Oratorio  Society,  22  ff.,  30, 
32,  35,  43,  57,  80,  92, 143, 169  ff.,  217, 
255,  327 

New  York  Philharmonic  Society,  186 
ff.,  206  ff.,  330,  et  passim 
New  York  Symphony  Orchestra,  27, 
46,  80,  143,  186  ff.,  236,  260,  330, 
346,  349,  et  passim.  See  also  Sym¬ 
phony  Society  of  New  York 
Newark  Harmonic  Society,  32,  34  ff., 
171 

Ney,  Elly,  356  ff. 

Niemann,  Albert,  42 
Nikisch,  Arthur,  337  ff. 

Nilsson,  52 

Nordica,  Madame  Lillian,  72  ff.,  132  ff., 
158/. 

Notman,  John,  208 
Novello  &  Co.,  273 


374 


INDEX 


Ochs,  Siegfried,  352 
Oratorio  Society  of  New  York,  22  ff., 
30,  32,  35,  43,  57,  80,  92,  143,  169  ff., 
217,  255,  327  > 

Orchestral  Conditions,  26 
Outlook ,  31 

Paderewski,  Ignace,  146  ff.,  187 
Pappenheim,  Madame,  55 
Paris  concerts,  1920,  278  ff.,  313 
Paris  Conservatoire,  46  ff. 

Paris  in  war  time,  229  ff. 

Parker,  Horatio,  181 
Parma  concert,  1920,  305  ff. 
“Parsifal,”  44  ff.,  171  ff.,  et  passim 
Pasdeloup  Orchestra,  223,  228 
Patti,  52 
Peary,  19 

Pendennis  Club,  190 
Pennington,  Mrs.  (Alice  Damrosch), 
19,  238,  265,  267/.,  270  ff. 

People’s  Choral  Union,  183 
Pershing,  General,  185,  234,  243, 245/., 
251  ff.,  265 

Philadelphia  Academy  of  Music,  12 1  ff. 
Philadelphia  Orchestra,  204,  330,  et 
passim 

Philharmonic  Society  of  New  York, 
186  ff.,  206  ff.,  330,  et  passim 
Phillips,  William,  31 7  ff. 

Phipps,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry,  95 

Piano  ensemble  for  Moszkowski,  356  ff. 

Pichon,  M.,  224 

Pierne,  Gabriel,  183,  279,  327 

Pinner,  Max,  11 

Pizzetti,  301 

Plato,  326,  344 

Pohl,  Richard,  7 

Polignac,  Marquis  de,  222 

Polish  artists,  146  ff.,  149 

Pollain,  Captain,  236 

Pollini,  360 

Popovici,  Dimitri,  12 1 

Porges,  14 

Powell,  John,  275,  281,  285,  301 
Preller,  Friedrich,  4 
Programmes  of  Paris  Concerts,  1920, 
278,  281 
Pruckner,  11 

Pulitzer,  Mrs.  Ralph,  332 
Punch ,  319 


Raff,  Joachim,  7,  14,  77,  81,  193,  359 

Ravel,  278,  280,  353 

Renz,  Herr,  85 

Respighi,  301 

Richter,  Hans,  319,  353 

Rieger,  William,  178 

Rieman,  Doctor,  47 

Rissland,  Rudolf,  196,  200 

Roberts,  Field-Marshal  Lord,  145 

Robinson,  Adolf,  55 

Rodgers,  Admiral  William,  270  ff. 

Roebbelin,  August,  208  ff. 

Rome  concert,  1920,  295^. 

Roosevelt,  Hilborn,  52 

Roosevelt,  James,  52 

Roosevelt,  Theodore,  179  ff.,  223,  269 

Ropartz,  M.,  309 

Rose,  353 

Rosebery,  Lord,  95 
Ross,  Mrs.  Janet,  304  ff. 

Rubinstein,  Anton,  2,  22  ff.,  33  ff.,  79, 
359  ff- 

Rummel,  Mrs.  Franz,  88 
Russell  (librarian),  88  ff. 

Saint-Saens,  Camille,  43,  144,  153  ff., 
t  180,  237,  258 
San  Martino,  Count,  296 
Sanford,  Samuel,  211  ff. 

Sarasate,  187 
Sauveur,  Doctor,  31  ff. 

Sayn- Wittgenstein,  Princess  Carolyn,  6 
Scaria,  45 

“Scarlet  Letter,  The”  (Damrosch 
opera),  114  jf.,  121,  160 
“Scarlet  Letter,  The”  (Hawthorne), 
114  ff.,  121,  160 
Scharn,  Fraulein  von,  39,  47  if. 
Scharwenka,  Xaver,  138  ff. 

Schelling,  Ernest,  356,  358 
Schieffelin,  Mary,  154 
Schiller,  Friedrich,  164 
Schiller,  Lorchen,  165  ff. 

Schirmer,  Gustav,  Jr.,  14.  ff.,  25  ff. 
Schirmer,  Gustav,  Sr.,  13 
Schirmer,  Rudolph,  14 
Schloetzer,  Baron  von,  29 
Schnitzer,  Germaine,  356  ff. 

Schoeffel,  John,  104 
Schools,  music  in,  326  ff. 

Schott,  Anton,  53/.,  105 


INDEX 


375 


Schroeder-Hanfstangel,  Madame,  54 
Schubert,  Edward,  9,  22 
Schubert,  Franz,  10,  11,  75,  260 
Schumann,  Robert,  10,  43,  75,  358,  361 
Schumann,  Clara,  2 
Schumann-Heink,  Madame,  132,  159 
Scott,  Walter,  98 
Sealey,  Frank,  35 
“  Seidenschwanz,  Caligula,”  84  Jf. 
Seidl,  Anton,  54,  63/.,  66,  77,  102,  107, 
116,  121,  142,  206 
Seidl-Kraus,  Madame,  54  ff. 

Seligman,  Isaac  N.,  215 
Sembrich,  Madame,  52,  149 
Shakespeare,  36,  94,  217,  346 
Shinkle,  35 

Shirk,  Lieutenant,  227 
Singer,  7 
Sinigalgia,  301 
Sloane,  William,  223,  239 
Smith,  John  Cotton,  32 
Smithson,  Miss,  164 
Society  of  Musical  Art,  184 
Sophocles,  344,  346 
Sousa,  361 
Sowerby,  Leo,  302 

Spalding,  Albert,  155,  275,  281,  284, 
^  286,  304 

Spring-Rice,  Sir  Cecil,  196 
Stanford,  Sir  Charles  Villiers,  144,  319 
Stanton,  Edmund  C.,  62  ff.,  66,  102, 
134 

Staudigl,  55,  61 

Steers  and  Coman,  198  ff. 

Steers,  Miss  Lois,  198  ff. 

Stehmann,  Gerhardt,  137  ff. 
Steinmetz,  General,  2 
Steinway,  William,  107  ff.,  138 
Stein  way  &  Sons,  22,  146 
Stevens,  Director,  303 
Steyl,  81 

Stock,  Frederick,  204,  361 
Stoessel,  Albert,  185,  255 
Stojowski,  Sigismond,  356  ff. 
Stokowski,  Leopold,  204 
Stone,  Melville,  225 
Strakosch,  Maurice,  28,  75 
Strakosh,  Max,  53 
Strassbourg  concert,  1920,  309  ff. 
Strauss,  Johann,  190 
Strauss,  Richard,  33,  353,  361  ff. 


Subscribers  to  New  York  Symphony 
Orchestra  Fund,  215  ff. 

Sucher,  Rosa,  109  ff. 

“Sulamith”  (cantata  of  L.  Damrosch), 

47 

Sullivan,  John  L.,  335 
Sulzer,  M.,  225  ff. 

Sun,  New  York ,  14,  96,  109 
Symphony  Society  of  New  York,  22  ff., 
30,  43,  52,  55,  57,  92,  121,  187,  272  ff. 
See  also  New  York  Symphony  Or¬ 
chestra. 

Tafanel,  46 
Tagliapietra,  167 
Talbot,  Mrs.,  327 
Tardieu,  Mr.,  222 
Taussig,  2  ff.,  7 
Tennyson,  20 

Ternina,  111,  114,  120,  129,  132 
Thomas,  Theodore,  22  ff.,  34,  53,  186, 
201,  204,  206,  353,  359 
Thursby,  Emma,  75 
Tivin,  Morris,  290  ff. 

Tommasini,  Signor  Vincenzo,  295,  297 

ff;  301  .  . 

Ton-ktinstler  Verein,  47 
Toscanini,  300,  308 
Townsend,  Roger,  282 
Trebelli,  52 

Tribune,  New  York,  342 
Tschaikowsky,  Peter  Iljitsch,  143  ff., 

364 

Tyler,  Bandmaster,  248  ff 
Tyson,  Mrs.  George,  333 

Untermyer,  Samuel,  208 

Valeria,  364 
Van  Dyk,  316  ff. 

Vecella,  Maestro,  298 
Verdi,  34,  64,  188,  300 
Versailles  Conference,  147,  263 
Vidal,  Paul,  279 
Vitali,  153 
Vogt,  Jean,  11,  171 
Volstead  Law,  35 
von  Biilow,  see  Biilow,  von 
von  Inten,  11 

Voss,  translation  of  Homer,  4 


376 


INDEX 


Wagner,  Cosima,  42,  75,  132,  143, 
173/. 

Wagner,  Richard,  1  ff.,  11,  13  ff.,  34, 
36  ff.,  52,  64,  68,  74,  77,  86,  92,  99, 
102,  104  ff.,  1 16  ff.,  127  ff.,  140, 
143#.,  156,  164,  171  ff.,  188,  190, 
192,  196,  20s  ff.,  252,  259  ff.,  281, 
292,  297  ff.,  300,  316,  333  /.,  337. 
340,  360,  362,  364  ff.,  et  passim. 
Music  dramas,  passim 
Wagner  Society,  106 
Walter,  Bruno,  178 
War,  the  Great,  221  ff.,  339  ff. 

Ward,  Major  Cabot,  241 
Warren,  Mrs.  John  Hobart,  152 
Webber,  Amhurst,  292 
Weber,  Joseph  N.,  213 
Weill,  Lieutenant  Michel,  252  ff.,  255, 
260,  262,  264  ff. 

Welling,  Richard,  12 1,  215 
Wendell,  Evart,  245 
Wendell,  Lieutenant,  245 
Wesendonck,  Madame,  164 
Wharton,  Edith,  244  ff. 


Whitlock,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brand,  314 
Whitman,  Mrs.  Henry,  333 
Widor,  Charles  Marie,  157  ff.,  238, 
257 

Wieniawski,  22 
Wilde,  Oscar,  363 
Wilhelmj,  August,  28  ff. 

Willeke,  Willem,  284 

William  I,  Emperor,  2,  7,  41,  79,  86 

Wilson,  Admiral,  265,  268 

Wilson,  President,  295 

Wolf-Ferrari,  183 

Women  in  musical  affairs,  323  ff. 

Wood,  Sir  Henry,  319 

World,  New  York ,  96 

Y.  M.  C.  A.,  222  ff.,  239  ff.,  265 
Yale  University,  212 
Young  People’s  Symphony  Concerts, 
183,  328 

Ysaye,  Eugene,  150,  152  ff.,  187 

Zimbalist,  Efrem,  193  ff.,  217 
Zimmerman,  Mrs.,  118 


. 


. 


\ 


\ 


\ 


